There’s Always Tomorrow Page 5

  God bless you,

  Sandy.

  There was a codicil at the bottom of the page, written in the same hand.

  This letter was dictated by Elizabeth Johns to Brenda Nichols, who nursed her until she passed away peacefully in her sleep on July 15th 1951. Signed Sister Brenda Nichols.

  His first reaction was panic. A kid? He didn’t want kids. That was what put him off Dot – her incessant bleating on about kids. How long he held the letter he had no idea. It was only when he realised that his cigarette was far too close to his lip that Reg stirred. He took it out, threw the dog end to the floor and ground it into the earth.

  He threw the letter contemptuously onto the workbench and reached for the tobacco tin again. There was no way he was going to take in some bloody Australian bastard. He rolled another fag and stuck it between his lips while he fumbled in his pocket for the lighter. Taking a deep drag, he picked up the letter and read it with fresh eyes.

  If he refused to take the kid, someone might go digging around in his past. Elizabeth Johns was dead. She’d left everything to him. That was a bit of luck. He’d need extra money if he was going to bring up a kid. Nobody would bat an eyelid if he took it. Running his hand through his own thinning hair he grinned to himself and squeezed his crotch. Yeah, he was still safe. As far as everyone knew, he was the kid’s only living relative and she was eight. She wouldn’t have a clue. What harm would it do?

  Pity it all went belly up back then. He didn’t like to think about what happened when he’d got caught, and when he’d got out he was scarcely more than skin and bone. He could hardly remember those first few days of freedom. He’d been a dumb thing, beaten, exhausted, bewildered … It had been a close call, but it was worth the risk. Thank God for bloody Burma. Before the regiment was sent there, he’d never even heard of the place.

  He’d written a letter to Dot telling her he was on a secret mission and given it to Oggie Wilson. Oggie owed him a favour. He’d heard after the war that Oggie had ended up on that bloody railway. When he got out, Reg tried to trace him but he couldn’t. Then someone said that they’d been forced to leave men by the roadside because the guards refused to allow them to bury the dead. He reckoned that’s what happened to Oggie Wilson. A bit of luck as far as Reg was concerned. No one left to blab. He sighed. All the same, it didn’t seem right leaving a man like Oggie out there in the open. He should have been buried, decent like. The thought of it made him shudder. If he hadn’t been caught, maybe he’d have been sent out to that bloody jungle himself, and if he had, he’d be lying beside poor old Oggie Wilson.

  Putting Elizabeth John’s letter in his lap, Reg unfolded the yellow sheet of paper. It was another letter, written with a child’s hand, complete with a couple of ink stains on the page.

  Dear Father,

  I hope you are well. I am well. I went to MULOORINA with Mrs Unwin in her truck. We ate ice cream. I am nearly nine. I can count up to 500. That’s all for now.

  Your ever loving daughter,

  Patricia.

  Patricia … Reg leaned back on the orange box and closed his eyes. A letter from Patsy. He liked Patsy better. His stomach was churning, the way it always churned when he was nervous. An old ITMA joke slipped between the sheets of his memories. ‘Doctor, Doctor, it really hurts when I press here.’ ‘Then don’t press it.’ He’d have to stop thinking about the past. It only made him angry. Put it out of your mind and get on with it. That’s what the screw had told them. He’d bloody tried but he couldn’t. It was the guilt mainly. He never told anyone, but sometimes he did feel bad about what happened. He felt a draught in the back of his neck and turned his head sharply, afraid that someone was standing behind him, but he was quite alone. He re-lit his cigarette and forced himself to relax.

  Lifting the envelope, he put the letter back inside. Something weighted the corner. He tipped it upside down and a small photograph fell onto the workbench. Just one look at that mop of blonde hair and it was obvious why she was called Sandy. She was standing outside a bungalow. It was a sunny day and there were some funny-looking flowers growing beside the door. She was wearing a nurse’s uniform. Her hair was loose and cut short. He couldn’t make out the detail of her face – the camera was too far away – but she was holding a bundle in her arms. Bloody hell. This must be Patsy.

  He was aware of his heart thudding in his chest. His mouth had gone dry. How long he stared at the small photograph he never knew. What did the kid look like now? He squinted at the bundle. Tom Prior, weedy as he was, was the father of twins and stepfather to the three others from Mary’s first husband. He always made jokes about Reg and the lead in his pencil. If everyone thought this was his kid, he’d have no trouble from now on.

  In the beginning, he’d been quite pleased to get Dot. She wasn’t a bit like the sort of woman he was used to but she was all right. He’d never gone in for all that soppy stuff, but until he’d met Dot, he’d never had a virgin either. It wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. He’d tried to get her to do what he wanted, but she wasn’t having any of it. Yet she was desperate for a kid, even wept about it sometimes. She was careful not to do it in front of him but he’d heard her in the scullery. He didn’t even want her now. Since the old aunt died, she bored him.

  The more he thought about being a father the more he liked it. The word sounded good. He was somebody’s dad. He had a daughter. Patricia. A nice name, Patricia, but he still preferred Patsy.

  I have left everything to you … With a bit of luck Elizabeth Johns was well off when she died. For all her wealth, bloody Aunt Bessie hadn’t left him a bean. Well, this could be the big one. The only problem was Dot. She might not take too kindly to having his kid around. He didn’t want her to rock the boat so he’d have to play this one carefully. Plan it all out. And when he’d won her round, he’d have a nice little nest egg. After that, the future would sort itself out.

  He opened the drawer again and took out his favourite photograph. The woman smiled up at him, her back arched and tits thrust out. She was better than Diana bloody Dors any day. He squeezed his crotch again. Right now he needed someone like her. Just the thought of her made his pulse race. She’d give him what he wanted … and more … He ran his tongue along her naked body and then shoved the photograph back in the drawer.

  Taking another drag on his cigarette, Reg pulled out a writing pad and cleared a space on the worktop. For once he didn’t have to word his letter carefully in case other people read it first. All the same, he didn’t want anyone to start asking awkward questions. Licking the end of the pencil, Reg began to write.

  Five

  Dottie didn’t finish at the house until late. She was worn out. All she wanted to do was to get home and put a bowl of warm water on the kitchen floor to soak her poor tired feet. She was just about to set off for home when Dr Fitzgerald came into the kitchen.

  ‘A marvellous day, Dottie.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Have you seen my wife?’

  ‘I believe she’s gone upstairs to lie down.’

  ‘And you’re off home?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

  ‘There’s really no need,’ Dottie protested. She rolled the plate scrapings in newspaper for the pig and put it into the shopping bag.

  ‘Oh, but I insist,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s starting to rain again.’

  They drove in silence, but this time Dottie didn’t feel very comfortable. The doctor seemed tense. He stared at the road ahead and his back was very straight. He’s probably driving like that because he’s had too much to drink, she thought, but it gave her little comfort. The only sound in the car was the whoosh, whoosh of the windscreen wipers.

  He pulled up outside her place and as he put the handbrake on his hand brushed her leg. She gathered her shopping bag, anxious to get out of the car as quickly as possible. ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ she said curtly.

  ‘Allow me,’ he said reaching across her to
open the passenger door. Their hands met on the door handle and he pressed himself against her. ‘Oh, Dottie,’ he said huskily. ‘Dottie.’

  Dottie was both shocked and surprised. ‘Dr Fitzgerald!’ she cried as his other hand squeezed her thigh gently.

  ‘Just a kiss,’ he was pleading. ‘One little kiss.’

  His face was right in front of hers and his mouth was open. She could smell his whisky-soaked breath. She turned her head away and dug him in the ribs with all her might. Her bag fell to the floor and everything spilled out. ‘Get off me,’ she hissed. ‘How dare you!’

  The wipers were still going and through the windscreen she could see the curtain in Ann Pearce’s bedroom moving. They didn’t get many cars in their street so obviously the sound of a motor drawing up had brought her to the window. The doctor accidentally touched the car horn and the loud and sudden noise seemed to make him come to his senses.

  ‘Oh God …’ he began. ‘Mrs Cox, I’m sorry …’

  As he slumped back in his seat, Dottie scrambled to get out of the car. The door swung open and the light went on. As she stepped into the road, she looked up. Ann let the curtain drop, but Dottie knew she’d seen everything. Breathless and still panicking, she ran up the path. Behind her, the doctor’s car turned around in the road and drove off into the night.

  She burst through the back door into the darkened kitchen and slammed it behind her. Thank God, Reg must still be at the pub. Heaven only knows what he’d do if he found out. Putting her head back, she leaned against the door and breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Dirty old man …’

  ‘Dot?’

  She jerked open her eyes and jumped a mile high. She swung round to see a dark shape in the chair. Dottie put the back of her hand to her mouth and let out a small cry. She fumbled for the switch by the door and the room was flooded with light. It was Reg. He had a bottle of beer in his hand and as he rose to his feet, the only thing that registered in her mind was the deep frown on his forehead.

  ‘What the hell happened? You look as white as a sheet.’

  Dottie felt herself sway slightly. She hadn’t expected Reg to be sitting here in the dark. She wished now that she hadn’t put on the light. She must look a right mess.

  ‘Dot?’ he said again.

  She felt her mouth open but nothing came out. She was shaking. He was going to be angry with her, she knew he was. She never should have accepted the lift. And yet she’d been in the doctor’s car hundreds of times and he’d never so much as looked at her. Not in that way, anyway.

  He came slowly towards her. She still had enough of her wits about her not to tell Reg what had happened. He was the type to do something stupid and face the consequences later.

  ‘What’s that all over your skirt?’ he accused.

  She glanced at her clothes. Lumps of half-eaten wedding cake and salad cream hung from her dress and she had a big blob of egg on her stocking.

  ‘I … I …’ she faltered and swayed again. She felt sick. Whether it was the sight of the pig food or the memory of what had happened she wasn’t sure. The room was going round and round.

  He grabbed at her arm and she flinched.

  ‘Come and sit yourself down,’ he said kindly. ‘You’ve obviously had a shock.’

  Now she was bewildered, confused. Doctor Fitzgerald’s actions were hard enough to deal with, but it was a long time since Reg had been so considerate.

  ‘Did something frighten you?’ He had his head on one side and was looking at her for an explanation.

  ‘Yes,’ she said quickly. ‘Yes, that’s it. Someone came up behind me and I dropped the bag of pig food.’

  ‘Pig food?’

  ‘Mrs Fitzgerald gave me the plate scrapings for the pig, but I dropped them.’

  ‘Who came up behind you?’ he demanded. ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said touching her forehead with her hand. She felt something cold and gooey; looking at it, she saw, she’d got pig food on her hand as well.

  ‘I saw an old tin full of tea on the windowsill today,’ he snapped. ‘Have you been feeding that bloody tramp again?’

  ‘No!’ she began. ‘Well … yes, but I’m sure it wasn’t him.’

  ‘I’ve told you before not to give to them scroungers,’ said Reg. ‘Let them work for their bloody living, like I have to.’ He snatched up the poker.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Dottie cried out, horrified.

  ‘You stay here,’ he said as he ran outside.

  ‘But it’s raining!’ she called after him. ‘He’ll be gone now.’

  But Reg was in no mood to listen. For one heart-stopping second she thought the poker might be for her but now he’d gone off in search of the tramp. Thank God the street was empty.

  She got up wearily from the chair and put the bowl on the table. There was a little hot water in the kettle so she poured it in and began to wash herself. The fingers on her left hand were swollen and painful from when Doctor Fitzgerald had pressed them against the door handle. Although she knew he was long gone, she still trembled. What on earth had possessed him? It was so unexpected.

  As she washed off the pig food, she pondered what to do. She couldn’t say anything to Mrs Fitzgerald. The woman probably wouldn’t believe her anyway. He was the village doctor, for heaven’s sake, and besides, Mariah Fitzgerald wouldn’t tolerate even the smallest whiff of scandal. She’d give her the sack for sure and that would have a knock-on effect. If she wasn’t good enough for the doctor’s wife, most likely her other employers would ask her to leave as well. And there was no way she could tell Reg what had really happened either. She’d have to think up some yarn for when he got back indoors. And then there was Ann Pearce. She must have recognised the doctor’s car. What if she told Reg? Dottie’s heartbeat quickened. No, she told herself, she wouldn’t. There was no love lost between those two. They weren’t even on speaking terms. Ann had been living with another man when Jack came back home and Reg was so angry about it, he’d reported her to the welfare people as an unfit mother, an accusation which was totally unfounded but which caused a great deal of heartache. For a time, Ann had been the subject of gossip and innuendo in the village.

  ‘She’s doing the best she can,’ Dottie told him but Reg made no secret of his dislike.

  Reg reappeared at the back door. He was holding the soggy newspaper with the remains of the pig food inside. ‘I found this in the hedge just up the road a bit,’ he said. ‘I reckon the tramp must have fancied it and come up behind you. You running off like that, must have scared him. Obviously he didn’t want the law on him so he ran off.’

  She gave him a faint smile. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re right, Reg. That’s it. That’s what must have happened.’ It seemed safe enough to blame the tramp. He never came near the cottage when Reg was there anyway. The doctor must have thrown the pig food into the hedge as soon as he’d turned the car around.

  ‘You sit yourself down, love,’ Reg was saying, ‘and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.’

  He lifted the bowl of dirty water and took it outside to throw over the garden while Dottie plonked herself down in the easy chair. Reg was making her very nervous. She couldn’t face it if he wanted her tonight but he got so angry if she let him lose the urge when it came. Somehow or other, no matter what she did or didn’t do, he lost it every time, and then he’d get angry.

  When he came back, she watched him busying himself with making her a cup of tea. Why was he being so nice? It should have been lovely being spoiled, but she couldn’t relax. It wouldn’t last. As sure as eggs is eggs, there would be a payback time.

  Six

  Reg was in a good mood when he arrived back home for Sunday lunch. Dottie was busy carving the joint but he put his arm around her and gave her a beery kiss on the cheek. ‘That smells good.’

  ‘Sit yourself down,’ she smiled.

  He belched in her face. ‘You’re bloody marvellous.’

  She felt disgust at his crudity and yet a
glow of pride at his compliment. It wasn’t often Reg said something nice to her. The people round here thought Reg a good sort, helpful and friendly. Good job no one saw what went on behind closed doors.

  ‘It wouldn’t be half as nice without your wonderful vegetables,’ she said modestly.

  The meal, roast lamb, mint sauce, new potatoes and runner beans, with gooseberry fool to follow, was Reg’s favourite. They ate with the radio on and Two-Way Family Favourites and the Billy Cotton Band Show in the background.

  ‘I was talking to Jack Smith in the pub,’ said Reg as he made for his armchair and the Sunday paper. ‘I told him we ought to do something while the weather’s nice.’

  ‘Did you, Reg?’ Dottie hid her smile. So, Peaches had done it. She’d invited him on the outing.

  ‘The weather might have picked up by Saturday.’

  ‘About time we had some good weather,’ said Dottie putting the kettle on for some tea. ‘What shall we do?’

  ‘How about a trip to the seaside?’

  ‘Ooh, Reg,’ she cried, enjoying the pretence. ‘That would be lovely.’

  ‘I reckon we could all get in that lorry of his,’ Reg went on. ‘You and Peaches will be all right in the back with Gary, won’t you?’

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say ‘but Peaches is pregnant’, but she knew he’d be annoyed – perhaps even change his mind. ‘Of course we will.’

  ‘I’ve offered him some petrol money,’ said Reg, settling down for a doze before he read the papers. ‘You’d better get round to Mary Prior’s to talk about the sandwiches.’ He yawned. ‘She’s coming too.’

  Dottie hummed to herself as she did the washing up. An outing. How exciting! She hadn’t been on an outing since … since … well, she could hardly remember. It must have been before Reg came back home. Things were definitely on the up. Everyone needed a bit of cheering up. This year’s harvest had only been fair to middling and the August bank holiday had been a total wash-out with torrential rain. The papers said it was the worst on record and what with the train crash at Ford which killed nine people and injured forty-seven the Sunday before, a general air of gloom hung over the village.