There’s Always Tomorrow (23 page)

The clock on the mantelpiece said 2.20am and Dottie was downstairs in the kitchen. She was listening out to make sure Reg was still asleep.

She had crept out of bed and down the stairs with her heart in her mouth. Call it a presentiment, or a hunch, she didn’t really understand why, but she had to make sure the hammer was still in the shed. Upstairs, a loud snore convinced her it was safe to go outside. She took her coat down from the nail on the back door. Outside, she opened the shed door gingerly, remembering that it sometimes creaked, and slipped inside. Opening the drawer, she shone the torch inside.

The hammer was still there, wrapped up in the piece of sacking. Where should she put it? She couldn’t leave it where it was. She didn’t trust Reg. For her own peace of mind, she had to think of some place where no one would think of looking. The chickens. She’d put it in the henhouse. She’d have to ask Ann to look after the hens while they were away. Back indoors, she scribbled a note then, pulling her coat tightly around her, Dottie hurried down to the bottom of the garden.

The pig was gone. Gerald must have taken it but she was surprised to see the door of the henhouse was wide open. Reg had said he’d done the chickens, so why was the door open? Good job she’d come down or the fox might have had them before morning. She walked inside softly so that they wouldn’t panic. There wasn’t a sound. She switched on the torch. Every perch was empty. Where were they? Had they all escaped outside somewhere? She felt sick. They were good egg-layers, and they would have eventually made good broilers. The torchlight picked out an old sack in the corner: something drew her to it. Cautiously Dottie went over and looked inside. She gasped in horror and almost dropped the torch.

All her lovely hens were in the sack. Every single one of them. Had the fox got in during the day and Reg didn’t want to tell her in case it spoiled the holiday? Foxes kill for the sake of killing, she knew that. It happened once when Aunt Bessie was still alive. The fox had got inside the henhouse and killed every single chicken. Dottie frowned. Back then there had been feathers everywhere and the fox had chewed the heads off as well. She bent to look more closely. None of the chickens in the sack had a mark on them but their necks were broken. Dottie trembled. Reg must have done it. But why? Why would he do such a thing? She couldn’t understand it. He enjoyed a boiled egg as much as she did.

Reg stepped back behind the curtain. What was she doing down the bottom of the garden, stupid cow? He hadn’t meant her to find the chickens, damn it. What was she up to? She’d been in the henhouse for some time. Was that bloody John Landers down there too? Surely they weren’t having it off in his chicken house?

Vera had collared him as he walked up the path.

‘I’m not the one to cast aspersions,’ she’d said, ‘but I thought you ought to know …’

Even while she was telling him, Reg felt the contempt rising in his mouth. Dot always thought she was a cut above the rest, what with all those ridiculous cushion covers and fancy curtains, but he’d never had her down as an unfaithful wife. Not until he’d ferreted in the dustbin and spotted some crumpled paper left in the bottom of the bin. He wouldn’t have bothered with it except that it was her Basildon Bond paper, the stuff she used for important letters. He’d picked up the bits and fanned them out. Now he couldn’t get the words out of his head.

Bitch. Slut. Apart from Joyce, they were all the bloody same. She’d been seeing that Dr Landers, he’d known that, but he hadn’t suspected anything was going on. Now he was boiling with rage. He’d gone down the garden to cool off but he’d lost it altogether in the henhouse. He hadn’t meant to kill them until it occurred to him that she thought more of her bloody hens than she did of him. So he’d grabbed one and then another.

His lip curled. Perhaps she was meeting the doc now. He could easily hide in the lane. Reg had done it himself often enough.

He waited until Dottie emerged from the henhouse and watched as she hurried back up the garden. His eyes narrowed. On the way down, she’d walked differently. All hunched up, her arms tightly round her. Coming back, her coat flapped open and her arms were by her side. The bitch was definitely up to something.

He leaned back into the shadows as she went into the outside lav. As he climbed back into bed, he heard her pull the chain.

‘I’ll just pop next door and ask Ann to look after the chickens,’ smiled Dottie the next morning.

Reg was sitting in the scullery, polishing his boots until they shone. ‘No need,’ he said cheerily. ‘I’ve already seen her. She’ll do it for you.’

Dottie chewed her bottom lip. Should she confront him? Tell him she’d already seen the bag full of dead chickens? Better not. He’d go mad and Patsy was on her way downstairs.

‘I’ve also cleared it with the doctor’s wife and with the old biddy in the shop too.’

Dottie was puzzled. It wasn’t like him to be so organised.

The house was practically all shut up. Reg had raked out the fire while Dottie was making the beds. He’d even packed their suitcase. Although she really didn’t want to go, Dottie had to do her best to make him feel everything was completely normal.

She needn’t worry about meeting John. He wouldn’t get her letter until Monday now. She was sure she’d missed the post. As soon as they got back from the holiday, she would arrange to go to Sylvie’s. She wasn’t ready but she didn’t want to be with him a minute longer than necessary.

Patsy was beside herself with excitement. ‘Will we swim in the sea? Will we make sand pies like you did when you were a girl? Will we eat ice cream?’

Dottie regretted telling her all that now. ‘It’s too cold for all that,’ she explained. ‘But we’ll still have a lovely time, you’ll see.’

‘But what will we do?’ Patsy wanted to know.

‘We’ll eat lots of lovely food and we’ll go for long walks.’ Dottie struggled to make it sound exciting. ‘Maybe we’ll hire some bicycles and go for a bike ride.’

‘But I’ve got nobody to play with,’ Patsy grumbled. ‘I wish Maureen and Susan could come.’

‘Perhaps next time,’ said Dottie.

‘Can I take my roller skates?’

‘That’s a lovely idea.’

Reg stopped polishing his shoes. ‘Where did she get those?’ he demanded.

Patsy looked up at Dottie nervously.

‘Mary gave them to her,’ Dottie lied coolly. ‘They used to be Billy’s and the girls didn’t want them.’

Reg went back to polishing his boots.

‘Did you tell Ann where I keep the chicken feed, Reg?’

The look he gave her made her blood run cold. ‘Stop fretting about the bloody chickens. I told you, I’ve seen to them.’

So he
was
responsible. He had killed all her chickens. But why? She felt more than a little anxious. She had to go along with it, but what was this all about?

He waved the brush at her and smiled. ‘Come on, pet.’ His voice was as sweet as honey. ‘Get your coat on. We don’t want to miss the train, do we?’

They were halfway to the station when Reg suddenly remembered he’d left his wallet behind the clock in the kitchen.

‘You two go and get us some sweets from the station shop,’ he said, digging deep into his pocket and fishing out half a crown. ‘I’ll meet you on the platform.’

Patsy’s eyes lit up.

‘What a pity you didn’t notice before,’ Dottie remarked. ‘If we’d been in the village, I could’ve popped in and told Janet Cooper where we’re going.’

Reg wasn’t listening. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

Dottie watched him running back down the road. She had no idea he could run so fast. Something wasn’t quite right. But what was it? She couldn’t put her finger on it.

‘Come on, Auntie Dottie,’ said Patsy tugging her hand. ‘Let’s get our sweeties.’

Although the Sea View was in the rundown part of the town, Dottie was relieved to arrive there in one piece. The train journey had been uneventful but Patsy’s excitement made it into an occasion. Reg had read his newspaper most of the way and then he had extended his legs and dozed off.

As soon as they arrived, the landlady had taken them up to their rooms. The furniture was very basic but the bedrooms, one single and one double next door to each other, seemed comfortable enough. Only the décor offended Dottie’s eye. Nothing matched: the bedspread in the double room was patterned with brown and orange squares, the curtains had red roses on them and the single room had pink curtains with brown and blue on the counterpane.

‘Very nice,’ said Reg.

‘Breakfast is at 8 o’clock sharp and I require all my guests to be out of the room by 10.30,’ said Mrs Flint as she handed Reg the keys to the rooms. ‘Doors open at 5pm and the evening meal is at 6.30 sharp.’

‘Thank you,’ said Reg. Behind his back, Dottie and Patsy grinned at each other. They turned to go.

‘I haven’t finished yet.’ Mrs Flint folded her arms over her chest. ‘Your bathroom is on the next floor up and baths are available on Sunday, Wednesday and Friday at an extra charge of two shillings.’ She glanced down at Patsy. ‘No running in the corridor and no food and drink in the bedrooms. Is that clear?’

‘Perfectly clear,’ sad Reg.

‘Then I shall expect you all in the dining room at 6.30 sharp.’ She turned to go. ‘By the way, there is a sing-song after the meal in the parlour. You are welcome to join in. If you go out, we expect all our residents in their rooms by 10.30 unless by prior arrangement. And,’ she added as an afterthought, ‘I do not tolerate drunkenness or entertaining in the bedrooms.’

As she disappeared down the stairs, Reg gave her a Hitler salute and Dottie giggled.

‘You and Patsy take the double,’ said Reg. ‘She might be a bit nervous on her own.’

Dottie was taken completely by surprise. Patsy was delighted.

The meal was plain but well cooked and enjoyable. Dottie and Patsy joined the residents with the sing-song after dinner while Reg read a book. The other guests were a motley lot. They included a retired vicar and his wife and two elderly women, both widows, who had spent most of their latter years staying in guesthouses and small hotels around the country. The other guests were three members of a dancing troupe appearing in the local theatre and a rather brassy-looking woman with blonde hair and bright red fingernails. She kept herself to herself.

‘We’re off to Norfolk for Christmas this year,’ one of the elderly women announced at dinner. She ran her fingers up and down her string of pearls. ‘Who knows, we might even pop down to Sandringham to see the King.’

‘I doubt he will be there,’ observed the vicar. ‘In my humble opinion, His Majesty is much too ill to travel.’

After dinner, Dottie took Patsy off to bed.

‘Night-night, dear,’ smiled the vicar’s wife. ‘Such a beautifully behaved child,’ she observed to her husband as they left.

John Landers couldn’t sleep. He stood at the window of the Warnes Hotel staring out to sea. Her letter, posted last night, had arrived at his mother’s cottage by first post on Saturday and had been specific enough. He’d dropped everything, booked himself into the hotel that afternoon and waited for her to come. By the time they were taking last orders in the dining room, he’d realised she wasn’t coming. The meal was fantastic, but he couldn’t do it justice.

In her letter she had sounded frantic with worry. It was obvious she had always wanted the best for Patsy but John had a gut feeling that Reg Cox wasn’t the type to make even a halfway decent father. He’d been cold and stand-offish when he’d seen Patsy. She didn’t look anything like him either.

He was no fool. Sandy was very English in appearance. Although dark-haired, with a sort of gypsy appearance, Reg was too – yet Patsy was mixed race. It was possible there had been an atavism connected to Patsy’s birth, but the reversion to a former ancestral characteristic after several generations, or throwback as it was more commonly known, was highly unusual.

Sandy had had a reputation for being a bit wild in her youth. Brenda once told him that coming to Australia had been a last-ditch opportunity to make something of her life. Brenda would never betray a confidence but John had the impression from the word go that Sandy had been an unmarried mother. The father of her baby must have been a person of colour. Definitely not Reg Cox. Yet the thing that puzzled him the most was the fact that Sandy had named him so clearly. In view of her youth and the fact that she was determined to keep her child, Sandy had been given a second chance. As soon as the war ended, she’d been sent to Australia for a new start.

He dropped the curtain and climbed back into bed. As puzzling as it was, there was something else on his mind. He’d have to find out why Dottie hadn’t come. She wasn’t the type to let people down.

His mother was looking a lot better now. He’d found her a Girl-Friday and she was being well looked after. It was time to look around for a practice. Worthing seemed like a nice enough area and he would be near Dottie. If he could only get her to trust him. She was in his thoughts day and night and he knew now that she was someone very special. Pulling the bedclothes over his shoulders, he resolved to motor over to the village to see Dottie in the morning.

At about 10pm, Reg knocked on the door as Dottie was getting undressed. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Just a minute, I’m not decent.’ She dragged on her dressing gown. ‘It’s all right now.’

The door remained firmly closed. Dottie pulled it open but the corridor was empty. She stood by his door and knocked, but he didn’t answer.

‘Reg? Are you there?’

Never mind. He could tell her whatever it was that was troubling him tomorrow.

On the other side of the closed door, Reg’s eyes glinted with excitement. As soon as Dottie knocked he pushed the woman with him against the door and covered her mouth with his to keep her quiet. With one hand he searched for her Venus mound. She began to resist him and the old excitement began coursing through his veins. He was in for a good night. She wouldn’t go all limp and submissive on him. She’d give him what he craved. He pushed his tongue deep into her mouth and winced as she dug her long red nails into the flesh around his naked waist. As Dottie’s footsteps died away and her door closed, he broke away and she laughed softly at his erection.

‘If only she knew.’

He ran his fingers through her blonde hair. ‘I wish she did,’ he said huskily. ‘It would make it a lot more fun.’

‘Are we really going to do it then?’

Reg drew his finger across his throat and smiled sardonically.

The woman’s eyes widened. ‘A knife? I don’t like knives.’

Reg took a small bottle out of his pocket. ‘Had it stashed away for ages,’ he said. ‘Phenobarbitone.’

The woman laughed softly. ‘Ooh, you naughty, naughty boy, Reg. Mummy’s going to be very, very cross with you.’

Ann Pearce watched the well-dressed man with the big umbrella walking round the back of Dottie’s place. It was a bit early to come calling and this was the second day running he’d been there.

She was upstairs at the bathroom window which overlooked Dottie’s path. She loved this room. It looked so much brighter than it had done even three months before. She’d replaced the dark green walls and brown panelling with a lovely canary yellow, and she’d done it all herself.

The man was knocking at the front door again. It was only ten past eight. What on earth did he want at this hour? She pulled the curtain completely shut and began to undress. She shivered in the early morning air but she was happy. Life was a lot better since she’d taken that job Dottie had got for her. When at first she’d been put on a fortnight’s trial, she’d resented it, but now that she was working full time she didn’t think it was such a bad thing after all. Miss Edwards had wanted her to do the windows and even clear out the guttering. At the end of her trial period, when she’d been offered the job at The Merton, she’d said she would only stay on one condition.

‘Condition?’ Miss Edwards demanded.

‘I’ll work for you provided I don’t have to put my life at risk,’ she’d said tartly. ‘I am not willing to go up any ladders, not unless you make a solemn undertaking to be the sole support of my children should anything happen to me.’

Miss Edwards had first glared at her but then she burst out laughing.

‘Fair enough, Ann,’ she’d smiled. ‘And I must say, I admire your spunk.’

Dottie had been a real pal. She and the kids had really enjoyed that day they’d all walked down to the seafront to see the new streetlights. It had been one of quite a few good days this year. She and Dottie could’ve spent more time together gossiping over a cup of tea if it weren’t for that Reg.

Her strip-down wash finished, Ann peeped through the curtains again. Despite the rain, the man was still there. He didn’t look like a debt collector or a policeman. Lord knows she’d seen enough of those to recognise one when she saw one. He’d arrived at the cottage in a car so he must be well off but why was he so persistent? Could it be that he was one of Dottie’s customers? Ah yes, that was it. Dottie was making some curtains for his wife or his mother and he’d been sent to collect them. Funny. If that were the case, why didn’t Dottie open the door?

Come to think of it, Ann hadn’t seen Dottie since Friday. On Saturday, Ann had taken the kids up to Highdown on the bus. They’d had a wonderful time, with the kids playing in the chalk pits. It was quite cold, but it was dry. Today, Monday, it was raining hard.

Mary and Edna were coming over later to talk about the food for Patsy’s surprise party. They’d begun their planning with small back-of-the-hand whispers on Bonfire Night. They had to be so careful that Dottie didn’t see them. Mary was bringing the twins, but that was all right – they could play with Brian and Phyllis. The important thing was, Dottie would be at Janet Cooper’s.

Now washed and dressed, Ann pulled back the curtain and the man tilted his umbrella and looked up as if he sensed she was watching him. She darted back but she knew he’d spotted her. Blast! What if he came to her door? She straightened the curtain and tidied away her soap and flannel, all the time listening for the sound of crunching footsteps on the gravel. But thankfully a few seconds passed into several minutes and the door knocker stayed silent. Cautiously she peeped again, but he’d gone.

The rain was heavier than ever and she could see Vincent Dobbs, the postman, coming along the road on his GPO bicycle. Then, out of the corner of her eye, Ann became aware of a movement by Dottie’s back door. She clutched at her chest. The man was still there, sheltering under the porch.

Vincent was about eight doors up. If he had post for them, he’d be turning into Dottie’s gate any minute now. There was a low rumble and as Ann took another look down into Dottie’s garden her eyes grew wide.

‘Oh my stars …’ she breathed.