Unforgettable (11 page)

There had been another letter from Davey Watkins, but she had merely answered it with a terse note to tell him the news about her father and to say she would write again when she felt able. It was the least of her concerns.

Then came an indignant letter from Dolly, who, of course, had no idea of the traumatic events in Gracie's life in recent weeks.

What's
happened to you, gel
? Dolly wrote.
I never thought you'd be so stuffy as to forget your old pals. You said you was going to phone me and give old Warby a fright, but I'm still waiting. I hope it don't mean your mum's feeling worse, or that the worst has happened. Anyway, to cheer you up, I thought I'd let you know that me and Jim are still going strong. That's a turn-up, ain't it? Bet you thought I'd have ditched him by now. He's all right, if a bit of a rough diamond, but I don't have to tell you that, do I
?

We went to the Empire Exhibition at Wembley a couple of weeks ago, and fancied ourselves among the toffs. Some of the stuff there would make your eyes pop out. There was a band playing on the bandstand in the park, and people were dancing on the grass, so it was quite a hoot. Me and Jim had a bit of a dance too, and we're going to go again sometime
.

Hurry up and phone me like you said, or write to me sometime, or I'll think you're getting too big for your boots what with your own little business and all
.

Your friend
,

Dolly Neath
.

Gracie gave a wry smile as she finished the letter. Her own little business indeed! Perhaps she had bumped it up a bit in what she had told Dolly about her sewing commissions, but that was for the sake of her pride as usual. She loved her mother and she didn't want anybody feeling sorry for her in having to come back home to care for her.

She knew very well why she was letting her thoughts ramble on. It was simply to avoid the other sentence in Dolly's letter that she had written so carelessly. The bit about seeing the band in the park, and people dancing on the grass in the warm sunshine, and the pictures it sent to Gracie's mind. If she closed her eyes very tightly, she could imagine herself being there, whirling around on the sweet-scented grass in someone's arms, with the sound of the music high on the summer breeze. It wouldn't be Charlie's arms that held her, of course, because he would be taking his place on the bandstand, his lips on the mouthpiece of his saxophone, his fingers caressing the buttons and producing that wonderful sound.

‘Gracie, can you come in, dear?'

The sound of her mother's reedy voice shattered the illusion at once, and she went into the front room almost angrily—not at her darling mother—but because she still
couldn't rid her mind of Charlie Morrison's image, when she knew there was no future in her dreams of him.

‘What is it, Mum? Can I get something for you?' she asked, trying not to notice how painfully thin her mother had become. She had eaten little enough before, but since Mick's death she had gone completely off her food. What she did eat, she rarely kept down for long.

‘Another tablet, please dear,' Queenie whispered.

‘Is the pain very bad?' Gracie said, her fingers opening the packet so nervously she nearly scattered them all over the bed. They both knew it wasn't time for her to take another pill, but if she needed it, it seemed cruel to deny her the temporary relief it gave her.

‘It's tolerable,' Queenie said, as she always did. Which Gracie interpreted as meaning that it was bloody bad.

Queenie retched on the tablet as she tried to swallow it, and spilled half the glass of water on to the bed as her hands shook uncontrollably.

‘Never mind, Mum. I'll crush another one for you and put it in a little drop of water,' Gracie told her, and fled to the scullery, her own hands shaking at the task. With every day
that passed, her mum got weaker, and she could see her slipping away as the pain and the illness ravaged her.

There were times when she found herself resenting her father for what was assumed to have been his quick death, and was immediately full of shame at the thought. But how long could this go on? She longed to keep her mother alive for ever, but she couldn't bear to see her becoming so frail.

‘You're a good girl, Gracie,' Queenie said, when she had finally got the crushed pill down, and lay back on her pillow. ‘I don't know what I'd do without you. But remember what I said. When all this is over, go back to your friends in London and start a new life.'

‘Mum, I don't want to hear this kind of talk!'

‘I'm not afraid to say it, love. We both know I'm dying, but you've got all your life in front of you. Don't settle for second best.'

‘You mean Davey Watkins, I suppose?' Gracie said, without thinking.

‘Him, and a house like this. I want better things for you, Gracie.'

Gracie felt choked. ‘I didn't have better things in London, Mum, sharing digs with Dolly and working in a sweatshop! Besides, there are so many memories here. This is
where I was born, no matter what kind of a house it is.'

‘And it's where I'll die, but I don't want that for you. Promise me, Gracie, that you'll always strive for better.'

She was starting to look exhausted from so much talking. Blue shadows had appeared around her lips, and Gracie was suddenly alarmed.

‘I'll promise anything you like, Mum, as long as you get some rest now. I won't do any more work today—'

‘Don't be silly,' Queenie said wearily. ‘You know I like to hear the sound of your sewing-machine.'

‘All right, as long as it doesn't disturb you.'

She bent down and kissed her mother's forehead as her eyes closed. The rise and fall of her chest was so slight now that it hardly made a movement beneath the bedclothes. Gracie watched her briefly before tiptoeing back to the parlour and the blouse she was working on for one of her clients. It was difficult to do anything for a few minutes though, because her eyes were so blurred with tears. It was hard to concentrate, but the lady in question wanted the work done urgently.

By mid-afternoon the blouse was finished and neatly ironed, and no one would ever know it had been altered, Gracie thought
with satisfaction. A smile curled around her lips as she remembered Dolly's remark about her own little business. Fat chance. But there was a small circle of ladies in the town now, willing to pay for her services. Word had spread that she was a reliable, excellent seamstress. It was hardly a business, but it was a thriving little sideline.

The smile faded, knowing it had better be something more than that if she was to survive on her own. Her dad's insurance money wouldn't last for ever. When her mum went, there would be a life insurance payment due for her too, but that was too upsetting and ghoulish for Gracie to think about.

She glanced in at her mum and saw that she was sleeping peacefully, and then she wrapped the blouse in tissue paper before parcelling it carefully in brown paper. She took off her work overall, combed her hair and put on a lick of lipstick before she put on her cotton gloves and left the house. She prided herself on looking as neat and tidy as possible before entering the best town houses.

She came away carrying a bolt of cotton material and a pattern for a child's frock. It gave her such a fillip to be making something new, and this time it wasn't just one article to make. There was a private nursery school in the upper town, and the little girls were all to
wear identical clothes. Gracie was commissioned to make them for a lovely fat fee. It was something to make her heart sing, and to make her mother proud.

She felt so joyous she decided this was the perfect time to telephone Dolly and give her the latest news. She must tell her about her dad too, she reminded herself guiltily, knowing she hadn't been able to do that yet. But Dolly had always been one for the living and not the dead, and she'd be pleased that Gracie was finding work in such a backwater as Southampton. Gracie grinned, hearing Dolly's dismissive voice in her head, when in reality, everybody knew that Southampton was an important shipping area. In Dolly's mind, though, the world began and ended in London.

Gracie went into the house quietly, but Queenie was still sound asleep, and she looked so peaceful that Gracie was reluctant to waken her, even though she was bursting with her news. Instead, she spent a little time spreading out all the pattern pieces on the parlour table and studying the detailed instructions. Then she thought about what to make her mum for supper that would be tasty and enticing. Beef tea seemed to be the most palatable lately, Gracie thought with a sigh, but at least there was some nourishment in it,
so that would probably be the best idea.

The knock on the front door made her jump. She answered it quickly, praying it hadn't disturbed her mother. Though such a thought seemed almost tragic. She would be getting all the rest in the world soon enough.

‘Oh, I'm sorry, Mr Hill, I forgot it was rent day. I don't have it ready yet.'

‘That's all right, my dear, I can wait.'

He was inside the house before she could stop him, right behind her as she returned to the parlour, and she kept her back to him as she opened the bureau drawer where the rent money was kept, her fingers flustered and her heart beating faster than usual.

She could hear his wheezing breath behind her. He was perspiring in the heat of the summer day, and the smell of him was rank. Gracie was already planning to sprinkle a good few drops of lavender water about the room the minute he was gone.

‘Here you are, then,' she said, turning round with the book and the money. She hadn't realized how close he was, and his hand closed over the rent book, enclosing hers inside it. He didn't immediately let her go, and although she wasn't exactly pinned against the bureau, she felt as though she was.

‘Please let go of me,' she said. ‘I assure you the money's all there.'

‘I'm sure it is,' he said smoothly. ‘Your mother was always a regular payer, despite your dad's little vices, and I'm sure you'll be the same in due course.'

Gracie flinched. ‘I think that's in very bad taste, Mr Hill.'

Although enraged at his callousness, she didn't raise her voice, because the last thing she wanted was for her mother to hear her wrangling with this oaf.

He let her go so suddenly she felt weak with relief. He counted the money and marked the rent book without another word, and then he smiled sweetly, if sweetly was the word for the smile of a waiting snake.

‘Don't worry, girl. I'll take care of you when the time comes. You'll always have a roof over your head, providing you pay the piper.'

He left her, and she sagged against the bureau. She couldn't doubt the meaning in his voice. It wasn't just the rent money he was after. It was her. It was just as Mrs Jennings had said, even though she hadn't really believed her. Percy Hill was
old
, compared with her, and why would a young girl, not yet twenty, want his fumbling hands on her, and his fat lips slobbering over her? She shuddered, willing the thought of it away. And then she did what she'd intended and
wafted the room with lavender-water to be rid of his smell.

Remembering what she had been about to do, she set about making the beef tea for Queenie. Once she had seen that she drank at least a little of it, she would have something to eat herself, and later she would go down to the newsagent and use his telephone and call Dolly. If anything was guaranteed to make her laugh, it was talking to Dolly. And she could make light of the fact that old Percy had taken a fancy to her, and cut it down to size.

Half an hour later, when she had calmed down properly, she took the tray into the front room and set it on the small table, preparing to spoon-feed Queenie herself if necessary, to make sure she took some nourishment. She put a smile on her face as she turned to her with the cup of beef tea.

The woman in the bed hadn't stirred. The blueness around her mouth had spread, but the lines in her forehead had smoothed out. In sleep, she was free from pain, which was why Gracie was always so loath to waken her. She replaced the cup on the tray and watched her for a few moments more, then she stroked her hand, and pressed her lips gently to her cheek.

‘Oh Mum,' she whispered.

‘It was a lovely way to go,' Mrs Jennings remarked. ‘She never felt nothing, did she? A stroke, the doctor said, just went to sleep and never woke up again. It was a blessing really, considering the pains she went through with the other, and a sight better than fishing your dad out of the drink, all smashed to pieces.'

‘You're such a comfort, Mrs Jennings,' Gracie murmured, wondering if there was ever a woman with a bigger heart and less tact.

‘That's what neighbours are for, ain't it?' Lizzie said, not seeing the irony. ‘Take another sip of medicinal brandy to keep your spirits up, lovey. And you don't have to worry no more about your mum and dad. They'll be up there together now, all nice and cosy.'

Gracie looked blank. ‘Up there?'

‘Up with the angels, gel,' Lizzie emphasized, her face reddening, ‘'Course, they might still be at each other's throats, but that's just the way they carried on. It didn't mean nothing. I ain't too sure about such things as angels, mind, but you got to believe in something, or what's it all for.'

Gracie took a quick sip of the brandy the woman thrust at her, trying not to notice the way it stung her throat and fuzzed her senses.

‘You think Mum and Dad are up there together, then, Mrs Jennings.'

‘Well, I ain't saying your dad went to the other place, despite all his drinking and hollering fit to wake the dead. You wouldn't want that for him, would you?' she went on uneasily.

Gracie gave an unexpected laugh, and immediately squashed the sound. But right now the house was so full of the scent of lavender that she imagined her mum was laughing at the thought as well, instead of lying stiff and cold in the front room, waiting for the laying-out woman and the undertakers.