Unforgettable (16 page)

Gracie turned the key in the front door behind her, not wanting to be disturbed again until she had got over the staggering amount of money inside the envelope marked ‘Gracie'. It wouldn't be huge in many people's eyes, but it was to her, and would have been to Queenie. Quickly, having been unable to do so when she had been interrupted she scanned the letter folded around the notes.

I been saving this over the years for
you,
Gracie love
, she read. Your
dad don't know nothing about it, and I know you'll open this before he does. So do what you like with it, and remember, it's for you and not for him
.

Your loving mother
.

Her eyes were blurred with tears when she came to the end of the poignant little note. Perhaps Queenie had had some long-ago premonition of dying before her husband, and she hadn't wanted him to get his hands on the little nest-egg she had hoarded for her daughter. As fate had turned out, Mick had died before Queenie, and now they were both gone.

It took a while for Gracie to get over what she had found. She took the precious envelope of money upstairs and hid it under her mattress, as if she thought she was about to be robbed in broad daylight. Which was ludicrous, because when had Gracie Brown ever had anything of value to steal? Besides, the daylight was fading now, and she would soon draw the curtains and shut out the night, and decide what this new-found wealth was going to mean.

A rap on the front door made her jump again. She peered out of the bedroom window but couldn't see anyone. It was probably Mrs Jennings coming back to reclaim her dish, but Gracie had been too keyed-up to eat any of the mutton stew yet, and wasn't at all sure that she could have faced the heavy dumplings.

She ran downstairs and opened the door, knowing that the woman wouldn't go away
until she did so. Wanting to feed her up, thought Grace with a rueful smile. The smile faded as soon as she saw who was standing there.

‘Well now, Miss Brown, we were forgetting something last weekend, weren't we?' came Percy Hill's oily voice.

She knew at once what he meant. She had forgotten the rent money, and she should have given it to Mrs Jennings to pay him while she was away.

‘I'm sorry, I'll get it for you now,' she said, flustered and turned away.

He was right behind her. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck. The words seemed to ooze out of him.

‘Things can't be easy for you now, my dear, but if you're having trouble paying, there's always another little arrangement.'

Before she could think, he had pulled her back towards him. His arms were around her body and his hands seized her breasts greedily. They squeezed her tight, tweaking her nipples between his fingers and thumbs until she gasped out with shock and pain. And then one of his hands slid downwards, yanking up her skirt and thrusting his hand up her leg towards her inner thigh. She opened her mouth to scream, but he was too quick for her. While his right hand probed, his
other one left her breast and fastened itself over her mouth like a vice.

‘Now then, my beauty, don't tell me you ain't been angling for this ever since you came back,' he panted. ‘And don't tell me you don't know what it's all about, neither. I always wondered what you got up to in London, and I wouldn't mind betting you learned a trick or two to whet a man's appetite.'

Gracie tried desperately to clamp her legs tightly together, but she could already feel the hotness of his probing fingers. She sobbed in terror, punching back at him with her elbows, but when she opened her mouth to scream, his fingers were instantly inside it, pumping in and out in a mockery of fornication.

He was thickset and bulky and she knew she couldn't get away from him unless she did something desperate. If she hadn't been too far away from the drawer with the kitchen knives in it, she knew she would have done for him.

At last she managed to struggle free. She let her hand drop to where she could feel the great ugly thing inside his trousers prodding at her. Without a second thought she grabbed it hard and twisted. He howled with pain as he staggered back. She rushed to the wall and banged on it, screaming and
yelling for Mrs Jennings.

‘You bitch!' he shouted, doubled up with pain and clutching himself. ‘You bloody whoring little bitch. You won't get away with that!'

Seconds later Mrs Jennings's outraged voice came at them both as she stormed in through the front door.

‘What the bleedin' hell's going on in here?'

It only took one look at Gracie's terrified face and at the uninvited visitor. She didn't need to say any more. Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed the teapot from the table, and threw it and the contents at the landlord. As it hit the floor it smashed to pieces. Percy Hill was left spluttering and hollering with hot tea and tea leaves streaming down his face and clothes.

‘Maybe that'll cool you down, you bastard,' Mrs Jennings yelled at him.

‘You bloody madwoman. I'll get you out of this street before I'm done,' he screamed, turning on her furiously.

‘You and whose army! I'll see you up before the magistrates if you try turning me and my old man out. I'll make sure the neighbours know what you did to this little maid, and you can whistle for your bleedin' rent money.'

The two women watched him blunder out,
and as Gracie stood silently sobbing she realized Mrs Jennings was laughing.

‘Don't worry, my duck. Everybody knows what he's like, and they'll all have heard the rumpus. They'll take one look at him as he gets off home and they'll know what's been happening. He won't bother you again.'

As she finished speaking, they could hear the catcalls and hissing in the street, and Gracie knew the woman was right. She was still too shocked to get any enjoyment out of it, though, and she saw Mrs Jennings look at her sharply.

‘He didn't really hurt you, did he, lovey? You know what I mean. You don't want the doc to come and take a look at you, do you?'

‘No, it's not necessary. I think I hurt him though.'

The memory of his howling flashed through her mind, and she gave a trembling smile.

‘That's better. Now, I won't take no for an answer, Gracie. You didn't want me stopping with you the night your ma died, but I'm stopping here tonight. I can sleep on the sofa perfectly well. No arguments, all right?'

‘I'm not arguing,' Gracie mumbled, and then her legs turned to water, and she was enveloped in the neighbour's arms.

Before she went to bed, Gracie scrubbed herself until her skin felt raw, to rid herself of the taint of Percy Hill's pawing. Her nerves were in shreds, but she was weirdly comforted by the regular sound of Mrs Jennings's snores from the parlour below. She had left London that morning, undecided about her future movements, and now two things had happened to decide it for her.

In the sleepless hours of the night, when every small unexpected sound could make her jump with fright, she kept her mind occupied by thinking about anything but the memory of that hateful man, knowing he would probably have succeeded in his vile intention but for the intervention of Mrs Jennings.

Weak tears ran down her cheeks. The neighbour had warned her about Percy Hill, but she had never expected such a vicious attack in her own home. She had never taken the warnings seriously; now she knew how foolish that had been.

The other, totally unexpected happening was the amount of money her mother had
been squirrelling away for her all these years. The money that would enable her to get out of here, find a decent place to live, and start her own business. She tried to think positively about that future.

She would need to live in a decent part of London if she wanted a good clientele. An area where there were children of moneyed parents who would pay well for well-made clothes for their offspring … and her interest in making them had definitely been stimulated by her recent commission. She tried to concentrate on those thoughts, and by the time a pearly dawn light had begun to filter through the darkness, she knew the time had come. She fell into a deep, exhausted sleep, and awoke with a start when Mrs Jennings brought her a cup of tea.

‘Oh, whatever time is it?' she mumbled, disorientated.

‘Never you mind the time, duck. You just stay there and drink your tea. I've got a saucepan of porridge warming nicely in the kitchen, summat to stick to your ribs and make you feel better.'

‘Thank you,' Gracie said weakly, not sure whether she felt like laughing or crying at the image it created. Lizzie was watching her carefully as if she was a piece of precious porcelain, and she realized she was starting to
feel somewhat better—even without the porridge sticking to her ribs.

‘I'll drink my tea and get up,' she said. ‘Then I'd like to talk over a few things, Mrs Jennings, unless you've got to go.'

‘Bless you, no. Jennings can take care of himself for a few hours. You just think of me as the next best thing to your ma, if it's not impertinent to say so.'

‘It's not at all,' Gracie said huskily.

Half an hour later, feeling more like herself, she went downstairs and forced the dish of porridge down for politeness' sake.

‘Now then, gel,' Mrs Jennings said, leaning forward, arms folded; the concerned neighbour—and a prize gossip, Gracie reminded herself.

Gossip would be useful for letting the rest of the street know what a rat Percy Hill was, but presumably they all knew that. But Gracie didn't want everyone knowing about the money she now possessed. So she had to be cautious.

‘If I give you the rent book and the money that's owing, would you see that Mr Hill gets it, Mrs Jennings?'

‘'Course I will, lovey. If you want to let me keep the book and let me have the money each week, I'll pay him with ours, then you won't have to see the toerag at all.'

‘Thank you. And you know Mum wanted me to move back to London sometime, don't you?'

‘Don't let that bastard scare you out of your own home, Gracie!'

‘He's not,' she said quickly. ‘But there's nothing to keep me here now. I've got friends in London, and my old job is always open to me,' she invented quickly. Though it wasn't really an invention. The option was there if she wanted it.

‘Oh well, I suppose you know best, but I'll be sorry to lose you, Gracie.'

‘I know,' Gracie said, swallowing the lump in her throat, ‘but life has to go on, so I'll give you the rent book and the money, and then I've got things to do.'

And good neighbour though she was, Gracie hoped she would take the hint, and stop looking as though she was a fixture for the day.

* * *

Later that morning Gracie walked purposefully to the homes of her best clients. Although they all showed surprise at her request, none of them refused her.

‘I shall miss your cheerful smile as well as your expertise, Miss Brown,' Mrs Farthing
said;, ‘but I wish you every success in your venture.'

It was the same everywhere, and Gracie was flushed and embarrassed by the time she had finished. But by then she had a small collection of references signed by some of the most reputable ladies of the town. Whether she would need them she didn't yet know, but they were always useful to have.

Her next call was at the newsagent's where the card advertising herself as a skilled London Outworker was still in the window. She asked him to remove the card now, and bought a London newspaper instead.

Reading it minutely at home, she felt a surge of nostalgia at the photographs about the Empire Exhibition, due to close at the end of October. That day in London had been so perfect, and Wembley was growing and becoming a fashionable area now. It would attract people of quality. It was where anyone who wanted to make a success of life might do well to start a new business.

The tingle of excitement inside her grew. She turned quickly to the pages at the back of the newspaper. There were advertisements of houses for sale and rooms to let, and she studied them carefully, pencilling a circle around anything that looked suitable for her needs, and eventually she sat back, with her
head spinning. So what now? All the adverts had box numbers, a few details about the furnished rooms in question, and stating that the property was in the Wembley area. So she had to write some letters to request more details.

It was a good idea, anyway. In a letter she could say exactly what she needed without getting flustered on the telephone, and without the embarrassment of simply turning up and having to say it wasn't suitable at all.

She started to compose the letter right away, and when she was satisfied, she read it back carefully, trying to see it through someone else's eyes.

Dear Sir
, she wrote.

I am requesting more details about the rooms you have for rent. I am a professional seamstress with a number of references, and would be using the rooms for my work as well as living-quarters. Please reply as soon as possible and let me
Icnow
when I may come to view the property
.

Yours faithfully
,

Grace Brown (Miss)

It looked brisk and efficient, and describing herself as a professional seamstress was
truthful enough. She copied the letter six times, filled in the box numbers on the envelopes and went out to post them before she got cold feet.

But she squashed the feeling at once. She could do this, and she
would
do it. As soon as she found a place to live, she would move back to London—providing they all replied. And providing they thought her a suitable tenant.

Her heart sank for a moment. Queenie had loved the sound of the sewing-machine whirring night and day, but not everybody would. Remembering the clatter of the machines at Lawson's Shirt Factory, where they all had to yell at one another to be heard, Gracie knew that. But she wouldn't let that deter her, nor take away the anticipation that she might be on the brink of a new life.