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.
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.
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.’
‘Well, I’m telling you, people would pay top dollar for a look like that,’ Sylvie said.
Dottie smiled modestly.
‘All I do,’ Sylvie shrugged, ‘is play bridge, shop and go to the hairdresser’s. Quite frankly, darling, if it weren’t for a certain person, most of the time I’d go mad with boredom.’
Dottie couldn’t imagine a day with nothing to do – and what did Sylvie mean, ‘a certain person’?
‘I’m going to shock you now,’ Sylvie went on, as if she had read her thoughts, ‘I’m not unhappy … because I’m having an affair.
Dottie was dumbstruck.
‘He’s a wonderful man,’ said Sylvie, her eyes lighting up. ‘His name is Bruce and he owns a riding stables. I met him when I went for some riding lessons.’ She opened her bag and took out a small wallet. Inside was a picture of a rugged-looking man on a horse.
‘He’s very handsome,’ Dottie conceded. ‘Are you and Robin going to get a divorce?’
‘Heavens no!’ cried Sylvie. ‘I’m quite happy with things the way they are. Bruce already has a wife and I have Robin.’
Dottie looked away. How could Sylvie love someone else when she was already married?
‘Well,’ said Sylvie. ‘I’ve told you all my secrets. What about you and Reg? I’m making a pretty shrewd guess that you are not as happy as you like to make out either.’
‘Don’t be daft!’ Dottie laughed.
‘No, seriously,’ said Sylvie. ‘What about you? What do you want out of life? What are your ambitions?’
Dottie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.’
‘Come on,’ Sylvie cajoled. ‘There must be something you’d really like to do if you had the chance.’
Dottie stared deeply into her glass of wine. ‘It’s no good hankering after something you can’t have,’ she said dully.
‘You’re not going to wiggle out of it that quickly, darling,’ said Sylvie taking a long drag of her cigarette. ‘Just imagine, money no object, no ties, nothing impossible … what would you do?’
Her answer came quickly. ‘Interior design.’
Sylvie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Judging by the way you’ve transformed that cottage, you’d be really good at it.’
Dottie swirled the dark liquid in her glass. ‘Daft idea.’
‘No it’s not.’
Dottie laughed.
‘Seriously, darling. I think you should get some training,’ said Sylvie. ‘You’ll have plenty of opportunity when you finally get your hands on Aunt Bessie’s money …’
‘Reg has other plans,’ Dottie interrupted. ‘He wants us to sell up and get a guesthouse by the seafront.’
‘Blow Reg,’ Sylvie retorted. ‘What about you? What do you want?’
‘I want him to be happy.’
‘Oh, Dottie, you are absolutely impossible. You’re making yourself an absolute martyr to that man.’
Dottie felt her face colour. ‘I am not!’
‘Then for goodness’ sake, take the money,
your
money, and do something for yourself. Look at it this way: if you succeed, you’ll make the both of you rich; and if not rich you’ll make a comfortable living doing something you really enjoy.’
‘Sylvie, can I ask you something?’
Sylvie laid down her knife and fork and took a sip from her wine glass. ‘Of course you can,’ she said draining the last of it.
‘This is very important but you’ve got to promise me you’ll never breathe a word to another living soul.’
‘Sounds intriguing.’
The waiter came back to the table. ‘Is everything all right with your meal, Madam?’
‘Fine,’ said Sylvie. Then, leaning forward, she said to Dottie, ‘Fire away.’
The waiter left.
Dottie explained about the letter and Patsy and then told her about the money.
After she’d filled Dottie’s wine glass again, Sylvie said, ‘So Reg wants me to pay the fare for this child of his to come over? The brass neck of the man! He doesn’t like me but he’d like some of my money. I suppose he didn’t dare ask me himself in case I refused.’
‘Don’t say that,’ said Dottie. ‘At least he’s let you come and stay.’
‘Probably to give himself a bargaining chip,’ said Sylvie, raising an eyebrow.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘He’s let your friend come and stay, so now you have no right to refuse his child and I should dip into my purse for the privilege.’
Dottie frowned. ‘Sylvie!’
There was an awkward silence.
‘I can pay you back when I get my inheritance,’ Dottie said desperately.
‘Oh, darling,’ cried Sylvie, reaching out to hold Dottie’s hand, ‘It’s not that …’
The pianist seemed to be playing a little louder. Dottie found herself humming, ‘when a lovely flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes …’
‘If I do help …’ Sylvie said.
‘Oh Sylvie,’ said Dottie eagerly.
‘
If
I do help,’ Sylvie repeated. ‘It will be to help
you
, not Reg.’
The look on Sylvie’s face was so serious, Dottie felt un comfortable. Had she upset her? She wished she hadn’t asked her now.
Sylvie called the waiter over and as he cleared away their plates Sylvie asked tersely, ‘Coffee?’
Dottie shook her head. Oh Lord, she
had
upset her. Oh Reg, why do you always make me do these things?
‘Just the bill please, waiter,’ said Sylvie.
Once they were in the darkness of the car, Dottie said, ‘Sylvie, if you’d rather not help out, I quite understand.’
‘Don’t be silly, darling,’ cried Sylvie. ‘Of course I’ll help you. I’d do anything for you, you know that. You can’t help it if Reg is being unfair.’
‘He just wants his child, that’s all.’
‘And what about you?’ said Sylvie. ‘Why don’t you have children of your own?’
‘Reg … he can’t.’
‘What do you mean, he can’t?’ Sylvie frowned and when Dottie refused to look at her, she gasped, ‘Good heavens! Do you mean you and Reg have never even made love? But, darling, how awful. You must leave him.’
Dottie shook her head. ‘Remember what Aunt Bessie used to say? You make your bed and you lie in it.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Sylvie. ‘We’re living in the fifties, for heaven’s sake. You can get an annulment straightaway if the marriage has never been consummated.’
‘We did it when we were first married, before he went to the Far East,’ Dottie explained.
Sylvie turned abruptly and crashed the gears as the car moved off. They motored back home in silence, Sylvie was struggling to keep her temper. Why was that wretched man so damned awkward? What sort of a life was he giving her friend? He was good-looking in a funny sort of way, which was why Dottie was attracted to him the first place, she supposed. She couldn’t bear the thought of Reg touching her, but if Dottie loved him, surely she deserved better than this. They didn’t do it …? Why not? Was he some sort of queer?
Dottie’s thoughts had drifted back to her honeymoon. Three days. That’s all they’d had, but Reg had been all right then. He was a bit rough but she hadn’t worried too much about that. She was Mrs Reginald Cox and it was wonderful just being with him. It didn’t matter if he was in a bit of a hurry. Everybody knew they might not have much time. So many had been here one day and gone the next. He kept saying how glad he was to have her.
‘I never understood why you married him in the first place,’ Sylvie said suddenly.
Dottie looked at her, horrified. ‘Because I loved him.’
‘Did you, darling? Are you sure?’
‘Of course I did,’ said Dottie defensively. ‘I do …’
Sylvie snorted and changed gear. The car sped on.
‘Come on, Sylvie.’ Dottie’s voice had an edge. ‘Say whatever you have to. We never keep secrets from each other, remember?’
Another car came towards them and its headlights flooded the car with light.
‘Let’s not quarrel,’ said Sylvie softly, as she glanced across at Dottie’s angry look. ‘I don’t want to upset you. You’re my dearest friend.’
Dottie looked down at her lap. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you but I feel so on edge all the time. I want things to be right between me and Reg. I want to make my marriage work but it makes things so difficult when he’s not happy. I know he’s desperate to have Patsy and that’s why I’ve agreed to try and help him get her over here. Perhaps if she comes here things might … well, you know …’
‘It’s an awfully big risk,’ said Sylvie. ‘And what about your life? How will you fit everything in? Your sewing, your little jobs, looking after Reg, and then Patsy …’
‘Patsy will be at school,’ said Dottie. ‘I can still work during the day and I can do my sewing in the evenings when she’s in bed.’
‘But once she’s over here,’ Sylvie went on, ‘how do you know that he won’t shut you out altogether?’
‘He wouldn’t. I know he wouldn’t,’ said Dottie weakly. ‘Oh Sylvie, I just keep thinking that if I do this for him, he may be able to … and then I … I just want a child of my own …’
‘This gets worse … sewing, Reg, your job, Patsy,
and
a child of your own?’
Dottie began to cry softly.
‘Don’t cry. I didn’t mean it,’ said Sylvie, reaching across to squeeze her hand. ‘Look, can’t you persuade him to go to the doctor … or maybe you could have a word with the doctor?’
At the mention of the doctor, Dottie shook her head. ‘He’d never go and I don’t think I could talk to Dr Fitzgerald about something like that,’ she said quickly.
‘Oh, darling,’ Sylvie chuckled, ‘you are a little prudish at times.’
When they got back to Myrtle Cottage they were both rather surprised to find it in darkness.
‘Does Reg usually go to bed this early?’ Sylvie asked.
‘He must be on an early shift tomorrow,’ said Dottie, hanging her coat on the nail behind the door and collecting the dirty dishes.
‘What, on the day of the wedding?’
Dottie shook her head. ‘Oh no, of course not. He’s got the day off. I forgot.’ A chill ran through her body. She shouldn’t have stayed out so late.
They said goodnight to each other and climbed the steep stairs, Sylvie in front clinging onto the rope banister for dear life, and Dottie right behind her to give her a sense of security. They parted with a hug on the landing.
Reg had the light off and his back to the door. Not wishing to disturb him, Dottie undressed quickly by the light of the moon filtering through the curtains and put her clothes on the chair. As she climbed into bed beside him, Reg pulled at the bedclothes and moved away.
She lay on her back staring up at the moonlight on the ceiling. Sylvie’s remarks had given her a lot of food for thought. Everyone in the village thought of Reg as a pretty good egg. He often gave some of the older folk something from his allotment and of course there were his flowers at the station. He might be a bit of a loner, but people around here liked and respected him.
Dottie saw something different. The Reg she was married to was more complex. He kept her on tenterhooks all the time. She never knew what mood he’d be in. If he wanted sex, it had to be here and now or he didn’t come near her for months on end. He would make remarks, small ones, but sometimes they’d hurt her very much. She always did her best for him, but somehow it was never enough. She’d always thought the way she’d been taught. Wives should be loyal to their husbands no matter what. Wives should spend their lives making their spouse’s life as comfortable as possible. They should be faithful. Love, honour and obey, so the promise went. Well she’d done all that and it still wasn’t enough. Just recently she’d started to think of herself as a person in her own right. Like Sylvie said, this was the fifties. Aunt Bessie may have been satisfied with that kind of life, but, for her, it was getting harder and harder to feel the same way. Surely there was more to life than this?
They’d been married since 1942, but in point of fact, they’d had very little time together. He’d gone almost as soon as the honeymoon was over and because he was doing something so top secret, she hadn’t even been allowed to write to him. She hadn’t heard from him for years and then all of a sudden, just before Christmas 1948, he’d turned up out of the blue. He wouldn’t talk about his wartime experiences, or where he’d been since the war ended. Too upsetting, he’d said. Aunt Bessie didn’t like it but there it was. Reg was a changed man, who had changed even more since Aunt Bessie died.