Better Days Will Come (5 page)

‘Well,’ said Manny putting his cup down. ‘I must be going. I have got a railway to work for.’

‘Thanks for the eggs,’ said Grace as she saw him to the door.

‘He’s sweet on you,’ said Elsie as Grace sat back down at the table.

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Grace. ‘You read too many romantic novels from that shilling library you belong to.’

‘You don’t blame me, do you?’ Elsie sighed wistfully. ‘There’s precious little love and happiness around these days.’

Mrs Smythe gave Bonnie some money for a taxi to the address in Aldford Street where she was to meet her prospective employer. It was just off Park Lane and in a very exclusive part of London, near the Dorchester Hotel where Prince Philip, the dashing husband of the Princess Elizabeth, had had his stag night the night before his wedding just a few days ago. She smiled as she recalled the newspaper pictures of the beautiful bride in her wedding dress decorated, they said, with 10,000 white pearls.

Bonnie knew enough about child care to know that most people in this area employed Norlanders, girls from a very exclusive training college in Hungerford. She’d once seen an article in a magazine and when she’d made her career choice, Bonnie had toyed with the idea of applying there herself; but it was totally out of her league. Only rich girls went to places like that. The fees were huge. She wondered why she had been sent to such an exclusive place when there were other girls eminently more qualified than her who could fit the bill, but then she remembered how fat the file on Lady Brayfield was and that Mrs Smythe had mentioned more than once that Richard could be ‘a little difficult’.

The house in Aldford Street was up a small flight of steps. Once inside, Bonnie was shown into a large sitting room on the first floor.

‘Lady Brayfield will be with you in a minute,’ the maid told her as she closed the door, leaving Bonnie alone.

It was a pleasant room with a large stone-built fireplace flanked by a basket on either side, one containing logs and the other a pile of magazines. Bonnie couldn’t help admiring the beautiful stone-carved surround. The house was probably seventeenth century, she guessed, maybe even older. It had a large window made up of many small panes of glass which overlooked the street, but the wooden panelling on the walls made the room rather dark. A round table stood under the window with a potted fern in the middle. A snakes and ladders board was positioned between two chairs and it looked as if the players had only just left the room.

The door opened and a middle-aged woman came in. She was elegantly groomed with lightly permed hair. She wore a soft dress of blue-grey material which clung to her stiffly corseted body and a single string pearl necklace. A cocker spaniel followed her in.

‘Good afternoon,’ she said crisply. ‘You must be Miss Rogers. The agency telephoned to say they were sending you.’ She lowered herself into one of the two armchairs and indicated with a casual wave of her hand that Bonnie should sit on the settee.

The spaniel sat on the floor next to Bonnie, its haunches on her foot. She moved her toes slightly but she didn’t complain. It didn’t matter. The animal was quite lightweight.

‘I’m not sure how much Mrs Smythe has told you,’ Lady Brayfield went on, ‘but your charge is a lot older than the children you are probably used to.’

Bonnie’s heart constricted. What was she doing here? The whole idea was an idiotic mistake. How could she possibly work for this woman? She was pregnant, for heaven’s sake. She started to panic and tried to compose herself as best she could, but already her face was beginning to flame. She cleared her throat noisily and found herself saying, ‘I don’t envisage that as a problem.’ She couldn’t bear the embarrassment of having to admit to this woman that she hadn’t exactly been honest with Mrs Smythe. No. If she was going to have to go back to the London and County for a more suitable post, she would have to get Lady Brayfield to turn her down for some perfectly logical reason.

‘Are you used to travel?’

‘No,’ Bonnie admitted. She was beginning to feel a bit sick. Instead of coming clean she was getting in deeper and deeper.

‘How do you feel about going abroad?’ Lady Brayfield asked.

‘It would be a challenge,’ said Bonnie. The dog placed his head in her lap. She felt almost comforted by it and smiled faintly as she placed her hand on his head.

‘You are between jobs …?’ Lady Brayfield ventured.

‘Yes,’ said Bonnie. There was an awkward moment when Lady Brayfield again waited for her to elaborate but Bonnie’s only response was to pat the dog’s head. What an idiot she’d been. It was only the lure of riding in a taxi and going to a posh address that had got her here. She had to get herself out of this and quickly. Think, she told her panicking brain, think …

They were interrupted by a footfall and the door swung open. A young boy about ten years old, dark haired and in his school uniform consisting of grey short trousers, a grey blazer with the school emblem on the breast pocket, a white shirt with a yellow and black striped tie, long grey socks and black lace-up shoes came into the room. His hair looked wet, as if someone had made an attempt to tidy him up. Bonnie could see the marks of a comb running through it, although on the crown of his head three spikes of hair stood defiantly up on end. The door closed behind him.

‘Ah,’ said Lady Brayfield, ‘this is Richard, my grandson. Come and say how do you do, Richard.’

Obediently but sullenly, Richard said, ‘How do you do.’

‘Miss Rogers is going to take you to your father,’ said Lady Brayfield. Bonnie’s heart sank. Oh no, she’d got the job.

‘I don’t want to go,’ Richard protested loudly. He stamped his foot and the spaniel began to bark as he kicked the closed door several times.

Lady Brayfield tried to placate the boy. ‘Richard, darling, you mustn’t get hysterical.’

‘I don’t want to go and you can’t make me!’ he cried.

This was Bonnie’s chance to extricate herself. She rose to her feet slowly. ‘Lady Brayfield …’ she began.

The boy threw himself onto the older woman’s lap. ‘Don’t send me, Granny. I’ll be good. I promise.’

‘But your father wants you out there with him, darling,’ said Lady Brayfield helplessly. ‘What can I do?’

She patted the boy’s back and looked at Bonnie as if seeking advice.

Bonnie chewed her bottom lip. ‘I’m sure …’ she began, but at the same moment Richard stood up, turned and launched himself at her, causing her to stumble backwards onto the settee.

‘No, no,’ he shouted. ‘You can’t make me. I hate it there. I won’t go, I tell you.’

Lady Brayfield was horrified.

Bonnie could see at once that he was clearly very spoiled and out of control.

‘Richard,’ his grandmother demanded, ‘stop that at once!’

Bonnie struggled to her feet and righted her hat but as she bent to pick up her fallen handbag, the boy aimed a kick at the settee. The toe of his heavy lace-up shoe made contact with Bonnie. Her hands automatically went to her stomach as she cried out in excruciating pain.

Lady Brayfield gasped. ‘Oh Richard, what have you done?’

They both stared in horror as Bonnie screwed up her eyes and fell back onto the settee with a loud cry.

Rita was having a history lesson. Normally the Georgian period fascinated her. Unlike her bored and sleepy classmates, she revelled in the romance of England at the time of Jane Austen, but she would have hated to live back then. It was mainly the treatment of women which horrified Rita. That far-off time was a world of arranged marriages when women had to be submissive, obedient and above all, quiet. Despite her mother’s best efforts, Rita wasn’t a bit domesticated. She would have failed miserably at weaving, sewing and cooking, and she didn’t know the meaning of quiet either!

‘For homework,’ said Miss Rastrick as she wrote on the blackboard, ‘read pages 37–54.’

Rita found the page.
‘A wife’s duty,’
she read in her textbook,
The History of the Georgians
,
‘was one of absolute obedience to her husband. It was considered extremely disloyal if she was tempted to be disparaging or critical of him.’

Rita shook her head. Thank goodness things were different now. The war had meant that when the men were called up, the women had to do their work. She was confident that now that the mould had been broken, it would be impossible to go back. Her future and the future of the girls in her class was a lot more promising than her mother’s had been and certainly more than her grandmother’s. Rita lived a world away from Regency England. She had no idea what she wanted to be when she left school next Easter, but she was determined to be mistress of her own destiny.

Her thoughts drifted to her sister Bonnie. She still couldn’t believe she had gone. Mum didn’t want to talk about it but she cried all the time. She tried to pretend everything was all right but every time she stood outside in the scullery, or went outside the back door to get coal or check on the washing, Rita knew she was hiding so that no one saw her tears. It had been almost two weeks and there was still no sign of Bonnie. Mum had been out all day last Saturday, but she wouldn’t say where. There were no letters from Bonnie either.

‘Rita Rogers, stop daydreaming and get on with your work.’ Miss Rastrick’s sharp reprimand brought her back to the present day and Rita went back to the text.

The sort of women Rita admired were women like Hannah Penn, wife of William Penn. After the death of her husband, Hannah inherited control over the Pennsylvania colonies he founded. According to her book, Hannah held power and governed them wisely for fourteen years, even though her own son made strenuous efforts to have his father’s will nullified. There was no holding Hannah back
and when my time comes, there’ll be no holding me back
, Rita thought to herself.

When the bell rang to signify the end of lessons, Rita’s excitement mounted. Over the weekend, she had formed a plan. She would follow it through the moment the school day ended. Miss Rastrick tidied the books on her desk and rose to her feet. There was a low rumble as twenty gymslip-clad girls rose to their feet as well.

Tucking her books under her arm, Miss Rastrick said formally, ‘Good afternoon girls.’

‘Good after-noon, Miss Rastrick,’ they chanted in unison. As soon as she’d gone, the class erupted into a wall of sound. Rita’s hands trembled as she packed up her desk.

‘I forgot to tell you,’ said Mo Dawson. ‘We had a letter from my brother Bob. He’s in Germany now. He asked to be remembered to you.’

‘Did he.’ Rita wasn’t that bothered. Bob, Mo’s older brother, was doing his National Service. The last time she’d seen him was at the school concert last year. He had spots.

‘Are you coming to athletics practice with us?’ Mo smiled.

Mo lived next door but one from Rita. They didn’t have much in common but they often walked together to and from school. Mo’s dad was a bit funny in the head sometimes but Mo was all right.

Rita shoved the last of her books inside and shut the lid. ‘Can’t,’ she said mysteriously. ‘I’ve got something on.’

From her school in South Farm Road, Rita took a detour down Pavilion Road. She didn’t know exactly where Bonnie’s boyfriend lived, but it was down this road somewhere. She had followed them once, but only at a distance for fear that Bonnie would see her. Rita hoped that once she saw the gate, she would remember the house.

Although they were becoming increasingly independent of each other, she and her sister had always been very close. When the news that their father had died came, their mother had retreated into a world of her own, spending hours sitting alone on the stairs, so she and Bonnie comforted each other. The sisters enjoyed the same things – walking on the Downs, experimenting with what little make-up they could lay their hands on and going to the pictures.

Bonnie was what people called a striking woman whereas Rita was regarded as the pretty one. She had long artistic fingers like her mother and dimples on her cheeks like her father. Her dark hair had a hint of bronze in it and it shone. For school she pinned it away from her face but out of school she wore it like the film star Joan Greenwood.

Although she didn’t have a boyfriend herself, Rita understood the unwritten rule between women that you shouldn’t interfere where a man was concerned. She’d kept her distance when George entered Bonnie’s life. She said nothing to her mother because she knew Bonnie was keeping this one under wraps. For some reason, Bonnie didn’t want Mum to know about him.

‘He’s a lot older than me,’ she’d confided in Rita one Sunday afternoon. ‘Mum will stop us seeing each other if I tell her.’

‘What’s he like?’ Rita wanted to know.

Her sister’s expression became dreamy. ‘He’s the most wonderful man on earth,’ she’d sighed. ‘He looks like Charles Boyer.’ Bonnie’s soppy expression changed as she saw her sister’s face and she added defensively, ‘Well, just a bit …’

‘On a dark night, with his hat down and his coat collar up?’ Rita quipped.

Bonnie pushed her arm playfully. ‘No, really.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘George.’

‘George who?’

‘You ask too many questions,’ Bonnie had frowned. ‘We’ve both got a half day on Wednesday afternoon and we want to go to Brighton. Will you cover for me or not?’

‘I suppose,’ Rita pouted, ‘but what if Mum finds out?’

‘The only way she’ll find out is if you tell her,’ Bonnie insisted. ‘Tell Mum because it’s half term, you and I are going to see if they’ve made a start on clearing the barbed wire from the beach at Goring.’

Out of loyalty and love, Rita had lied to her mother with impunity, covering for what Bonnie and George were doing more than once.

She’d reached the bend in Pavilion Road but nothing seemed familiar. George’s digs must be around here somewhere. She looked over the hedge of number 131.

‘Lost something, love?’

Rita nearly jumped out of her skin as a woman carrying two heavy shopping bags came up behind her. ‘I’m looking for a friend’s house.’

The woman put one of her bags down and flexed her whitened fingers.