Family Drama 4 E-Book Bundle (60 page)

She took out Michael’s present and laid it on the chair. Then she put the picture, a special present for Dottie, on the bedside table. She’d give it to her another time. Smiling at the photograph of the three of them, she ran her finger over Aunt Bessie’s face under the glass. Even though they had all lived in the same house, Sylvie knew only too well that Aunt Bessie and Reg had barely tolerated each other.

‘You never were happy with Dottie’s marriage, were you, Aunt Bessie,’ Sylvie said to the picture. ‘You and me both. I’ll tell you what though. I’ll make you a promise to get to the bottom of what’s troubling her during this weekend.’

Draping her cardigan around her shoulders, Sylvie turned towards the stairs. The one thing she hoped above all else was that Reg wasn’t knocking Dottie about.

Fifteen

By the time Dottie, Sylvie and Michael’s mum, Edna, arrived at the village hall, Mary already had her husband Tom, along with greengrocer Cecil Hargreaves, father of the bride, and Steven Sullivan running around with trestle tables and unstacking chairs. Rose Hargreaves, Freda’s mother, had brought the cake stand for the wedding cake and some candles. Some other people from the village were there too, including Maggie, young Steven Sullivan’s wife, who worked in the old folks’ home on the edge of the green.

Everyone was thrilled to see Sylvie again but almost as soon as they all went back to work, Sylvie tottered back to her car. ‘If you’ll all excuse me, I’ve broken my nail. I’d better go and file it before I make a start.’

‘She hasn’t changed,’ Mary muttered as she walked out of earshot. ‘Still skiving.’

Dottie gave her a hefty nudge in the ribs and that started them on a fit of the giggles.

As is the case with the users of most village halls, there was a definite pecking order. Betty Cannington was in overall charge. She had been doing village ‘dos’ for the past twelve years. She’d taken over from Florrie Hanson who had taken over from Emily Pulsford in 1933.

There were no written instructions and outsiders like Mrs Belski, a Polish immigrant living in the village, found it difficult to
understand the workings of the village hall kitchen. She was at a loss to know who did what, but Dottie and her friends understood perfectly. Everyone knew where everything was, and that Betty was the one who had the ultimate say in where things should go and how things should be done. ‘We’ve always done it this way,’ was her watchword.

‘All right if I put the cups and saucers here on the top, Betty?’

‘When we did old Mrs Groves’ funeral,’ Betty said, ‘we found it worked better if they were on this side of the urn.’

Mrs Groves had died in 1943.

Of course, whoever was organising the ‘do’ was allowed to put her own small stamp of change on certain things, but everyone was careful not to upset Betty, or it would be the worse for them if they wanted to hire the hall on another occasion.

Edna and Rose decided the hall should be arranged with a top table for the wedding party and two long side tables for the forty wedding guests. Sylvie, Mary and Dottie covered each of the trestles with white bedsheets decorated with bunting, while Rose and Edna worked amicably together on a small table slightly set apart from the others, on which the cake was to be cut.

‘How are the kids?’ Dottie asked Mary.

‘Back at school,’ said Mary. She put a pin in her mouth and bent down to put some of the bunting in place. ‘Billy’s doing his mock eleven plus in a few weeks.’

Dottie smiled. ‘He’s bound to pass. He’s a clever boy.’

Mary swelled with pride. They stopped talking as they concentrated on fixing another loop of bunting to the sheet. ‘That’ll give you a bit of time to yourself then,’ said Dottie, smoothing out a sheet and making sure the edges were even on both sides of the table.

‘Christopher and Connie are still at home, of course. They’re not quite four, but the others are all at school. I miss them when they’re not there. So do the twins. The place seems so quiet.’

‘I was wondering,’ Dottie ventured. ‘How would you feel about looking after somebody else’s kids while they were at work?’

Mary looked up and stuck the pin in her finger. ‘Ow! Dottie are you …? You’re not …?’

Dottie looked away embarrassed. ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘Not me. I was thinking of Brian and Phyllis.’

‘Brian and Phyllis Pearce?’ gasped Mary. ‘Well, I’ll go to sea. I never had you and Ann Pearce down as friends.’

‘I just thought she could do with a hand, that’s all,’ said Dottie. ‘She needs a job.’

‘What’s brought this on, hen?’ said Mary.

‘The kids,’ said Dottie. ‘I can get her a job, easy. I know plenty of women in the village who want a cleaning lady, but she can’t work with the kids in tow, and I thought to myself, Mary loves looking after kids …’

Mary said nothing.

‘It won’t be for long,’ Dottie added. ‘Brian goes to school next year and Phyllis is already three.’

‘You can tell her I’ll do it,’ said Mary.

‘Oh Mary!’ Dottie cried. ‘You’re a star. I’ll ask her to pay you, so you’d better work out what you want to charge her.’

‘There’s no need for that, hen,’ said Mary, pinning the bunting to the sheet again.

‘Yes, there is,’ said Dottie. ‘She’s got her pride.’

‘What will she get cleaning?’ said Mary.

‘Half a crown an hour is the going rate around here. If she starts at nine and works through till four when the kids get out of school, she could earn four quid a week.’

‘Then tell her she can pay me a pound a week and I’ll give them dinner.’

Sylvie came back.

‘What took you so long?’ Mary asked.

‘I had to get them all even,’ said Sylvie, holding out her hand to admire her fingernails. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Can you pin some more bunting on those tables?’ asked Mary, trying not to smile.

‘I’m no good at sewing,’ said Sylvie.

Dottie kept her head down. If she looked at Mary again, they’d both start giggling. ‘How about giving a hand in the kitchen?’ she suggested. ‘I think they’re laying out cups and saucers.’

They were interrupted by raised voices near the top table. The mothers of the bride and groom had crossed swords with Betty. Rose wanted to place four candles on the top table.

‘We never put candles near food,’ Betty declared. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped Rose. ‘This is a family tradition. We always light a candle at a wedding.’

Betty pursed her lips. She was now in fighting mood. ‘And while we’re on the subject, we never have balloons near the hatchway, Edna,’ she said sourly. ‘The children might get excited and try to pop them. We can’t have that when the teas are around.’

‘You’re determined to spoil this, aren’t you, you dried up old biddy,’ snapped Edna.

‘Don’t you dare talk to me like that …’

Dottie stepped in to defuse the situation. In the end, Edna agreed to move the balloons, and Betty conceded to the candles, provided Rose waited until everyone was seated before lighting them.

‘As soon as the speeches are over,’ said Betty, determined to have the last word, ‘make sure they get blown out.’

‘Of course I will,’ retorted Rose, adding under her breath, ‘what does the stupid woman take me for?’

By the time the men had taken down the long ladder they’d used to hang the bunting from the rafters, Mary said she’d better get back to put the little ones to bed. Tom said he’d drive her home and give Edna a lift home as well.

‘See you at the church,’ Mary called cheerily as they left.

Maggie had set out the big plates on the tables and Cathy, the
district nurse, was helping put out the cutlery. Dottie went into the kitchen to join Sylvie who was still laying out the cups and saucers.

‘That was a nice thing you did for Ann,’ said Sylvie. ‘Mary told me.’

Dottie shrugged. ‘She needed help and I know Mary loves looking after children.’

‘You’re a lovely person, Dottie,’ said Sylvie, giving her a hug. ‘Too kind for your own good.’

Dottie laughed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘People don’t like goodness,’ said Sylvie. ‘Take care it doesn’t backfire on you.’

By 7.30pm everything was ready.

‘You must be famished,’ Dottie said to Sylvie. ‘I’ll get us some tea when we get in.’

‘Will Reg be there?’ Sylvie asked.

‘I imagine he’ll be at the pub by now,’ said Dottie with a shake of her head.

‘Then I’ll take you out for a meal,’ said Sylvie. ‘My treat.’

Dottie hesitated.

‘Come on,’ Dottie cajoled. ‘Even if he hasn’t gone to the pub, I’m sure Reg can find himself something to do.’

Reg stood outside the bedroom door listening. The house was empty. He’d come home to find his tea in the oven between two enamel plates. The gravy had a skin on the top of it and the potatoes had started to brown. If he hadn’t been so hungry he’d have chucked the lot of it in the pig bin where it bloody belonged. He knew this would happen if he let that woman into his house. She’d go filling Dot’s mind with all sorts of things and she’d neglect what she was supposed to do.

After he’d eaten what he felt was the worst meal he’d ever had in his whole life (and he’d eaten some real slop during the war), he went upstairs to change. He found a clean shirt laid out on
the bed but he didn’t like that one. He had to turf out half the wardrobe to find the one he wanted. There was a new dress on her side. A silly frilly pink thing. He supposed Sylvia must have given it to her, but where Dot would wear the darned thing, he couldn’t imagine. But then that was Sylvia McDonald all over. Always filling Dot’s head with daft ideas.

On the way downstairs, he hesitated outside her room. Through the crack in the door he could see her open suitcase on the bed. A drawer was open too. He could see some things lying inside.

There wasn’t a sound in the whole house, nothing except his own breathing. They must still be at the village hall getting ready for Michael Gilbert’s wedding, although why on earth it should take all this time, he hadn’t a clue. People expected too much at weddings these days. All those bloody sandwiches and cakes. He’d even heard her say that Edna was making jellies as well. He’d been satisfied with a glass of beer for himself and a sherry for Dot. Of course, there were no relatives on his side and he’d made Dottie keep the numbers down on hers. Like he’d told her, they didn’t have the time or the money to go in for all that wedding breakfast malarky.

He reached out and pushed the door open. It creaked as it swung back and he stared into the room. Dot had made it look completely different from how it looked when that old cow Bessie was there. In fact, there wasn’t a trace of her left.

He stepped onto the rug. His mouth was dry and his heartbeat quickened. This was the first time he’d been in the room in two years.

He looked into the suitcase and saw a bed jacket, some silk stockings and a book. He reached into the case and picked up one stocking. It was as light as a feather, sheer, and obviously expensive. Her underwear was in the drawer. It didn’t look like anything Dot had.

Reg walked over and ran his fingers over a pair of cream
French knickers. He felt himself harden. Licking his lips, he took them out of the drawer by his fingertips and held them up to the light. He lifted them to his nose and smelled them. A sudden noise made him start. The door had clicked shut and the surprise made him brush his elbow against something on the bedside table. It fell with a clatter and a bang. Dropping the knickers, he froze in horror.

It was a photo in a silver frame. One he’d never seen before: Sylvia and a much younger Dot, their arms around each others’ shoulders, smiled up at him – but it wasn’t their faces that disturbed him.
She
was sitting in front of them, on a chair. She was wearing that same violet-coloured dress and she had that daft cowboy hat on. All at once her voice filled his head.

‘Over my dead body, Reg Cox. Go to hell …’

Something touched his cheek and his skin crawled. Blind panic made him rush from the room but it was only when he reached the bottom of the stairs that he realised it was his own perspiration running in a rivulet down his face.

Sixteen

Sylvie had taken Dottie to a hotel in the centre of Worthing. Overlooking the Steyne, it was almost the length of the road. Inside the restaurant, the tables were covered with crisp white table linen and they offered a silver service.

‘This must be so expensive,’ Dottie whispered.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ smiled Sylvie. ‘Robin’s business has done really well so he can afford to treat his wife and her best pal to a meal out.’

She linked her arm through Dottie’s and propelled her to a table.

In the corner of the restaurant, a pianist was playing Doris Day’s song, ‘Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered’. They ordered soup with roast beef to follow. Dottie thought she had never had a better time.

As the pianist struck up ‘Harbour Lights’, they began to reflect.

‘Robin and I lead very separate lives,’ Sylvie said. ‘He’s very keen to do well. Did I tell you he might get onto the board of directors before long?’

‘You must be so proud of him,’ Dottie said.

‘I suppose so,’ said Sylvie grudgingly. ‘It’ll probably mean I’ll see even less of him. Oh, Dottie, I wish I could be like you.’

‘You wish you were like me?’ Dottie was incredulous.

‘You are so talented and you cram so much into your day,’ Sylvie went on. ‘I knew you were good at sewing frocks but your little house looks absolutely amazing.’

‘It was the Festival of Britain that got me going,’ said Dottie. ‘They had one at the Assembly Hall in Worthing. I’d never seen anything like it … all those lovely geometric patterns and bold colours. I enjoy making clothes but furnishings are so much more exciting.’ She was suddenly aware that Sylvie was staring at her.

‘What?’

‘Your face,’ she smiled. ‘It lights up like a beacon when you talk about it.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise. I think you’re fantastic.’

‘It’s only copied … most of it from magazines,’ laughed Dottie. ‘And it’s all done on the cheap.’