Family Drama 4 E-Book Bundle (66 page)

Dottie woke with a start. The bright moonlight had waxed into the dull grey of early dawn. She slid out of bed quickly, anxious not to wake Reg. Grabbing a change of clothes, she tiptoed downstairs. The clock said 5.20am.

Rather than use the bathroom and risk another encounter with Reg, she washed in the bowl and dressed by the unlit fire. She curled up in the armchair and sipped her tea. She was still sore and she had a bruise on her lip. That must have been where he pressed his hand on her face. Miserably, she cupped her hands around the tea and swirled the dark liquid. Sylvie said to leave him – but how could she? If she cleared off now, with Patsy on the way, he wouldn't be able to look after her on his own. And besides, why should
she
go? This was
her
aunt's house. If anyone should leave, it should be him. But she knew that wouldn't happen, not in a month of Sundays. She reached up onto the mantelpiece and took down the letter. The postmark was dated two weeks ago. In a few weeks, by the middle of October, the girl would be here.

She looked at the child's letter again. She had very neat handwriting, which meant she was very bright for her age. Suzy was probably the name of her dolly. Dottie wondered how she was managing onboard. She leaned back and closed her eyes. She could just picture Patsy, in her pink and white gingham dress, her blonde curls bobbing along the deck as she played
hide and seek with Dr Landers. Oh dear, what if Dr Landers was too old to play hide and seek? What if poor Patsy was seasick? What if poor old Nurse Tranter fell asleep in a deckchair and Patsy climbed through the railings and fell into the sea!

Dottie opened her eyes with a start. She heard the stairs creak and glanced at the clock. 5.45. Reg was coming downstairs.

Putting her cup into the hearth, Dottie fled into the scullery intending to disappear down the garden until he'd gone. She picked up the bucket of chicken feed but when she opened the door, it was raining. Tipping it down.

‘Got the kettle on out there?' The sound of his voice made her stomach churn.

‘Just coming,' she called.

The teapot was only warm. She switched on the gas and poured the contents of the teapot away.

Reg appeared in the doorway. ‘Been looking at Patsy's letter again, I see.'

‘I'm sorry,' she said wildly. Oh hell, she'd forgotten she'd still got it in her hand when she'd heard his footfall on the stairs. She must have automatically left it on the chair. ‘I didn't mean to read your letter,' she gabbled. ‘I'm sorry, Reg.'

She hated to sound like this but she was scared. Scared of what he might do …

‘That's all right,' he smiled. ‘Her new mum is bound to want to look at her picture.'

He walked towards her but mercifully the kettle began to boil, so she was able to turn away and busy herself by making a fresh pot of tea. When she walked into the kitchen he was sitting at the table. He caught her by the waist as she put the teapot onto the stand.

‘Bread and cheese?' she asked.

‘I'd rather have you all over again.'

Dottie looked at the ceiling. ‘Sylvie's up there,' she squeaked. ‘She might come down.'

‘I like it best when somebody's listening. Adds more spice to it.' He let her go, slapping her bottom. ‘Another time, eh?'

Dottie pulled down the kitchen cabinet and got out the bread. Her hands were trembling so much as she cut the slice, she didn't get it very straight. Normally Reg didn't like it when she messed things up but today he took it as a good omen.

‘Looks like I've got you all of a dither,' he smiled.

She sat down in the armchair and put her hands around a new cup of tea.

He buttered his bread thickly. ‘Cheese?'

‘Sorry.'

She went to get up, but he raised his hand. ‘I'll get it.'

As he bent to look in the cupboard, a head appeared at the window. The tramp, under an umbrella, his knuckles poised over the glass, peered into the room. Dottie leapt to her feet and shook her head. The tramp followed the direction of her eyes.

‘Let me find it for you, Reg,' she said. Bending beside him, she reached into the cupboard and drew out the cheese dish. When she stood up, the tramp had gone.

‘I was looking for a piece of cheese,' Reg snapped. ‘Not a bloody dish.'

I have kept the cheese in that dish ever since we got married, she thought crossly, but she said nothing. Instead, she went back to the chair and sat down. Please don't let the tramp look through the window again, she thought anxiously.

They sat in silence as Reg ate his breakfast, then he stood up and reached for his coat in the nail behind the door. ‘You do the animals,' he said, coming over to her. ‘The rain will most likely clear up soon.'

Flinching, she didn't know what she was expecting him to do – but it certainly wasn't to plant a kiss on the top of her head. In the minutes while he was getting his bike out of the shed, she sat very still, listening to the slow tick-tocking of the clock.
She was confused. How could someone be so horrible at one time and then, a few hours later, be so nice?

Reg put his head around the door again. ‘Oh and Dottie,' he said pleasantly.

Relaxing, she smiled up at him. ‘Yes, Reg?'

‘Make sure you get rid of that silly bitch upstairs before I come home.'

As soon as she was sure he had gone, Dottie stood up and went into the scullery. She made a third pot of tea and cut a couple of doorstep slices of bread and a hunk of cheese. It had stopped raining now but when she walked outside the tramp's tin can wasn't on the windowsill. Where was he? Perhaps sheltering from the rain somewhere? Then, as she turned to go back inside, she jumped a mile high. The tramp was standing right behind her.

‘Lord, you made me jump,' she cried, clutching at her chest.

He didn't move.

‘I'll get your tea.'

‘No,' he said quickly. ‘No need.'

She'd never seen him this close up before. His face was dark and swarthy but he didn't smell. In fact, he looked quite presentable, even smart. His features were weather-beaten and he was a lot younger than she had first thought – about fortyish, with tousled hair and watery blue grey eyes. She could see at once that his eyes were filled with sadness and she wondered what had happened to him that he should have been reduced to this. She wondered if he had been in action because he was wearing an army greatcoat. Hitler and that accursed war had damaged so many people in more ways than bombs alone could.

‘Can I get you anything else?' Dottie asked gently.

‘The old lady in the mauve dress …' The sound of his voice was a surprise. Quiet, with a gentle Irish lilt. She had expected
something else altogether: for it perhaps to be deeper, or a voice coated with rattling phlegm.

‘What old lady? There's only me here.'

He lifted his head towards Aunt Bessie's room and then looked back at her. He didn't elaborate but gradually his gaze rested somewhere behind her head.

All at once, Dottie's blood ran cold. Reg had come back? Was he right behind her and angry because she was giving the tramp something to eat. She swung sharply around, but there was no one there.

‘Don't do that!' she cried. ‘You're scaring me.'

He looked at her as if she'd whipped him and she was immediately sorry.

‘She fell,' he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

‘Oh, you mean my aunt?' said Dottie. ‘Yes, you're right. I'm afraid she died. But that was a long time ago, nearly two years.'

He touched his forehead as if trying to remember something. ‘She sent me back …'

‘She fell down the stairs,' said Dottie.

‘She was kind,' he said. ‘A saint.'

Dottie laughed. ‘She was a wonderful person but hardly a saint.'

‘She helped me.'

‘I know.'

‘It was my fault …'

The upstairs sash cord window rattled open and Sylvie stuck her head out. ‘Oh, it's you, Dottie. I wondered who you were talking to.'

‘I was just talking to … I'm sorry, I don't know your name.' She turned back to introduce him, but the tramp had gone. ‘Where did he go?'

‘Who?'

‘The chap I was talking to. Didn't you see him?'

Sylvie shook her head. ‘Is it all right to come down?'

‘Yes, of course.'

As she went indoors, Dottie felt puzzled. His fault? Whatever did the tramp mean? Was he there the day Aunt Bessie fell down the stairs? And if so, why didn't he get help?

When Sylvie and Dottie sat down to breakfast, the atmosphere between them was a bit awkward. Dottie knew Sylvie must have heard her and Reg. It was obvious she wanted to say something but Dottie could hardly bring up the subject herself. It was too embarrassing. In the end, they both skirted around it.

‘I can't believe you didn't see the tramp,' said Dottie. ‘He was right beside me.'

‘I heard voices,' said Sylvie, ‘but it took me a couple of minutes to get to the window. Anyway, what did he want?'

‘He comes round now and again for something to drink and a sandwich.'

‘Robin says we shouldn't encourage that sort.'

‘Reg says the same,' said Dottie, pouring Sylvie another cup of tea. ‘But he's not that old. He hasn't been around for ages. I was surprised to see him looking reasonably well turned out. I keep wondering what must happen to someone, that they should have just given up on life like that.'

‘Too much drink most likely.'

‘I don't think so,' said Dottie. ‘He doesn't smell of drink.'

Sylvie got out her cigarette case. ‘What was he talking about?'

‘He mentioned Aunt Bessie.'

Sylvie tapped her cigarette onto the case and looked Dottie straight in the eye. ‘Did he hurt you? Reg? Last night, did he hurt you?'

Dottie felt her face flame. ‘I don't want … it's none … no … yes …'

Sylvie covered Dottie's hand with hers. ‘Listen, darling, I know you don't want to talk about it, but really, I meant every word I said. If you ever change your mind, ring me. Keep four pennies
handy for the phone box so that you've got it day or night and I'll come. Wherever you are, I promise I'll come.'

Dottie sat very still, conscious that a large tear had rolled down her cheek and fallen onto the plate in front of her. She felt so humiliated she wanted to curl up and die. Sylvie handed her a pretty lace-edged handkerchief. Numbly she took it and wiped her eyes. ‘Thank you.' Her voice was very small. The sound of the clock seemed to get louder.

Sylvie took a long drag of her cigarette and put her head back. Dottie tried not to make a sound as she cleared her nose.

‘Do you have to have this child of his?'

‘How will he look after her if I go?'

‘That's hardly a good reason to stay,' said Sylvie.

Dottie sighed. Sylvie was right. Why should she stay here and look after Reg's daughter? This was
her
home. She wanted so much to say ‘Yes, Sylvie, I'll go with you' – but if she left, Reg would get the house by default.

‘This is my home,' Dottie said desperately. ‘And besides, I can't let him down. Not after he's suffered so much.'

‘Dottie, you can't spend your whole life trying to make someone else happy. It's time you thought about what
you
want.' Sylvie leaned towards her as if she was going to say something else, but then she seemed to think better of it.

‘If Reg is happy, then I'll be happy,' Dottie said, struggling to regain her composure. ‘Look, I don't want to be rude, Sylvie, but I don't see the point of going over and over the same thing and that's that. You're very kind to be so concerned but please, you're not to worry about me.'

‘A very pretty speech,' said Sylvie, ‘but don't forget, I slept here last night.'

Dottie's face flamed. She couldn't talk about last night. It was … humiliating. As she rose to leave, Sylvie put up her hand up. ‘Point taken, darling. If you'd rather not talk about it, we'll say no more. Like I said in the car, I care too much about you to quarrel.'

They finished their breakfast, making polite conversation, then Dottie helped Sylvie to pack her things. By 8.25 she was ready for the off and Dottie stood in the road to wave her goodbye.

Sylvie handed her the framed photograph of the two of them with Aunt Bessie. ‘I thought you might like to have this,' she said. ‘I had it enlarged and framed to remind you of the happy times we had together.'

‘Oh, Sylvie!' cried Dottie. ‘It's lovely. I'd quite forgotten it. She looked so funny in that old cowboy hat.'

‘How did she get it?' Sylvie asked. ‘I've been trying to remember …'

‘Colonel Warren gave it to her, didn't he?'

‘Of course,' cried Sylvie. ‘All those American Square Dances she organised.'

They looked at each other and, smiling broadly, chorused, ‘Yee-ha!'

Sylvie put her arm around Dottie's shoulder and they leaned over the photograph again. ‘Dear Aunt Bessie. I always think of her in that dress.'

Dottie smiled. ‘She was wearing it the day she died.' Something made her stop. She frowned thoughtfully. Something was niggling at the back of her mind, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. The tramp. He'd asked about the lady with the mauve dress. Aunt Bessie was wearing it in the photograph and she was wearing it the day she died. She shivered. The tramp must have seen her. So why didn't he raise the alarm?

‘What is it?' Sylvie asked.

‘Nothing,' she said, shaking the dark thoughts away. ‘You'd better get going and I've got to get to work. They embraced and Dottie kissed her on the cheek. ‘You're a good friend.'

As soon as she was in the car, Sylvie wound down the car windows. ‘Please think about getting away from Reg,' she said. ‘Don't leave it too long, and for God's sake, don't end up getting pregnant with his child.'