Goodnight Sweetheart Page 7

  Before long they were taking Christmas orders and Frankie surprised herself by settling down in the job. She knew she wouldn’t stay at the florist’s forever, but for now she was content to stay for at least a year to get a good reference. The work was varied and she was learning all the time.

  ‘Cut your blooms to different lengths,’ Mrs Waite told her. ‘Taller flowers in the middle and the shorter stems on the outside. That way your bouquet looks fuller.’

  Doreen developed a flair for making terrariums. Mrs Waite taught her how to plant orchids and ferns in a little soil at the bottom of a goldfish bowl. The trick was to peg them down with hair pins. Everybody else’s terrarium looked good. Doreen’s was always sensational and whenever her efforts were on display, they always sold first.

  Occasionally the two girls worked side by side on the bench. That was the only time they had a conversation.

  ‘Where did you go after …?’ Doreen hesitated.

  ‘After my mother died?’ Frankie said. ‘I went to live with my aunt; mum’s sister.’

  ‘Were you happy?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Frankie. ‘I still am. In fact I sometimes forget that I’m not part of the immediate family.’

  Doreen gave her a wan smile.

  ‘My cousins, Alan and Ronald, are motorbike mad,’ Frankie went on. ‘They taught me how to ride.’

  Doreen’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You actually ride a motorbike?’

  Frankie nodded. ‘I love it. I took part in a race a few weeks ago but I can’t do it again because I’m a girl. Besides, most of the big races are on Saturdays. There are a couple of circuits where they race on Sundays though.’ She paused and looked at her friend. ‘Why not come along sometime?’

  ‘Mother wouldn’t like it,’ said Doreen, her voice flat. ‘We always go to the hall on Sundays.’

  ‘That’s lovely, Doreen,’ Mrs Wait interrupted as she looked over her shoulder. ‘Frankie, finish up here and come through to the office. I’ve got a couple of deliveries for you.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Waite,’ said Frankie, and, scraping the bits into the bin, she added to her friend, ‘Fancy coming to the pictures with me on Saturday?’

  Doreen shook her head. ‘I’m not allowed,’ she said.

  ‘Why ever not?’ Frankie gasped. ‘It’s a good picture. It’s not an “X” or anything.’

  ‘My mother considers the cinema to be a den of iniquity,’ said Doreen dully. ‘She says it’s the devil’s playground.’

  Frankie blinked in surprise. ‘What on earth does she think goes on in there?’

  Doreen shrugged. ‘I don’t know but I can’t come.’

  ‘It’s only the pictures,’ Frankie muttered as she headed for the office.

  *

  Alan was becoming quite well known on the motor scramble circuit. He hadn’t been placed at the Donnington course but he had come in third at Bagshot Heath.

  Frankie could only look on enviously. She still tinkered with the bikes in her spare time, little that there was, and her knowledge of the machines had advanced enormously.

  In the run up to Christmas, Frankie had her own money for the first time in her life. She bought a tin of boiled sweets for the girls at work to share. She also found some really good presents for the family. She’d saved hard and managed to get a lovely little oil dispenser for Alan, some handkerchiefs for Uncle Lorry, a fountain pen for Ronald (good old Woolworth’s), and a new torch for Aunt Bet – her old one was knackered even if it did have new batteries. It was very satisfying to be able to get them something she’d bought using her own money. They had been wonderful to her and Frankie would never forget it. The holiday season brought with it a few fond memories of her mother which were not without tears. It was five years since she’d been gone and Frankie still missed her.

  Aunt Bet was making some Sussex Plum Heavies, always popular with her boys. She’d served them up so often she could almost make them without looking but a movement down by the old bike shed distracted her. Bet could hardly believe her own eyes. There was her son Alan with that Barbara Vickers again. Alan had her pinned to the wall of the shed with his hand inside Barbara’s coat and judging by the way the girl was gyrating, it wasn’t around her waist. The pair began kissing passionately. Bet frowned crossly. Hadn’t she warned her son about that girl just a month or so back? The little madam. She’d always thought that girl was trouble. Did she have no shame? Alan was virtually eating her. The way she led the boys on, she’d be having a baby before long.

  ‘Well, not with my son, you won’t,’ Bet muttered.

  On the Friday before Christmas, Doreen and Frankie were both given time off. All the orders had been done and Mrs Waite said there was no point in hanging around in case another customer came into the shop. ‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘tomorrow will be very busy with husbands doing their last-minute shopping, so off you go and enjoy yourselves.’

  ‘You know, it’s at times like this that I miss my mother the most,’ said Frankie as they strolled down Montague Street. ‘We used to come into Worthing occasionally to do some window shopping.’

  ‘I remember her so well,’ Doreen said. ‘She was really kind to me and I loved her stories.’

  Frankie smiled. ‘She certainly had an eventful life.’

  ‘I particularly liked the story about the day she fought off that Russian and saved the princess,’ Doreen went on.

  ‘I liked that one too,’ said Frankie.

  ‘Do you still have that beautiful doll she made you?’

  ‘She sits by my bed,’ said Frankie with a sigh. ‘You know, my mother was so full of life that for ages I struggled to believe she had gone.’ She paused, adding, ‘And I blamed myself.’

  Doreen raised her eyebrows. ‘Why would you do that?’

  Frankie shrugged. ‘I suppose I thought I might have saved her if I’d got home from school earlier.’

  ‘But she didn’t take her own life, did she?’ Doreen gasped.

  ‘No,’ said Frankie.

  They had wandered into Woolworth’s. Doreen squeezed Frankie’s arm. ‘People said she’d been dead a long time before Mrs Dickenson found her.’

  ‘I heard that too,’ Frankie agreed. She was standing at the lipstick counter. She had two colours but she only wore lipstick when she went to the pictures or the Saturday dance with Barbara. Frankie twisted the end of a Max Factor lipstick to reveal a bright and luscious red. Perhaps she should wear lipstick every day? It was about time she started behaving like a young woman now that she was working. ‘What do you think of this colour?’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Doreen said absent-mindedly.

  ‘It’s called Carmine,’ said Frankie, but Doreen wasn’t really listening.

  ‘You know you weren’t the only one who blamed herself about your mother,’ Doreen said quietly. ‘I used to worry that her heart attack was all my mother’s fault.’

  For a moment, Frankie froze. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh Frankie, the day she died, they had the most fearful row.’ Doreen’s face was the picture of misery and Frankie could see tears standing in her eyes. ‘All my mother wanted to do was to save you.’

  ‘You’re scaring me,’ said Frankie. ‘Save me from what?’

  ‘Don’t you remember?’ Doreen went on. ‘The tarot cards in that little tin on the mantelpiece.’

  ‘And what do you think you are doing here, young lady?’ A harsh and angry voice interrupted them, making them both jump.

  Doreen visibly trembled as her mother pushed herself between them. She leaned towards her daughter and hissed in her ear. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of painting your mouth like a common Jezebel.’

  ‘Actually I was the one looking at lipsticks,’ said Frankie. Her gaze went to Mrs Toms’ shabby coat pulled tightly around her middle with the buttons straining. She had no hat but her hand-knitted scarf was over her head and tied under her chin.

  ‘Oh, I might have guessed you had something to do with it,’ Mrs Toms sneered, he
r steely grey eyes fixed on Frankie. ‘Don’t I always say, corruption breeds corruption.’

  ‘Doreen wasn’t doing anything wrong,’ Frankie insisted.

  ‘Why aren’t you at work?’ Mrs Toms demanded of her daughter.

  Doreen seemed to have shrunk a couple of feet. Her face was ashen and she stared at her feet like a naughty little girl. Frankie could have sworn she was trembling too.

  ‘Mrs Waite gave us the rest of the afternoon off,’ Frankie blurted out, ‘so I suggested …’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ The shop assistant had joined them.

  ‘Everything will be perfectly all right,’ Mrs Toms retorted, ‘as soon as my daughter and I are out of this palace of sin.’ She snatched at her daughter’s arm. ‘Come along, my girl. We’re going.’

  Frankie stared after Doreen and her mother, feeling quite sorry for them. They must be very poor. Mrs Toms’ shoes were so worn down they went right over as she walked. When the pair reached the door, Frankie turned back to the shop assistant.

  ‘What was all that about?’ the girl asked.

  Frankie shrugged. She felt surprisingly upset. Replacing the lipstick, she turned to go.

  The shop assistant sniffed loudly and walked away muttering, ‘Nutty as a fruit cake.’

  Doreen didn’t come to work the next day, nor the day they went back to work after Christmas. Mrs Waite contacted her and Mrs Toms said her daughter had left the shop and would not return. Frankie was both sad and curious. Poor Doreen. Fancy having an old battle-axe like that for a mother; and what did Doreen mean when she said her mother and Mrs Toms had had a row about the tarot cards? What were tarot cards anyway?

  Back at the farm, Aunt Bet had bided her time until she and Alan were alone with little chance of interruption. They were both in the scullery; he was cleaning his best shoes and she was folding the washing ready to iron.

  ‘Looks to me like you’re quite keen on that Barbara Vickers,’ she said, willing herself to sound casual.

  Her son pulled a face. ‘She’s all right, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ Bet said coldly.

  He turned his head to look at her. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ His voice had an edge to it.

  ‘When you get to my age,’ said Bet, ‘you learn how to take stock of people and that girl is trouble with a capital “T”. She’s the type who can trap a boy into marriage and …’

  Alan snorted. ‘You needn’t worry on that score, mum. I’ve no intention of marrying Barbara Vickers.’

  ‘Well, see to it that you give her no reason to expect it,’ said Bet, sweeping out of the room.

  Ten

  Worthing, June 1939

  There was nothing on at the pictures so Barbara suggested that she and Frankie go to the matinee variety show at the pier pavilion. Over the past year, the two girls had fallen into a sort of routine. They often met on a Wednesday night to go to the pictures and on a Saturday they went to a show in the afternoon or to a dance in the evening. Today they had managed to get good seats and the show was enjoyable. Frankie particularly liked the glittering costumes of the dancing girls. The comedian Cyril Fletcher recited some very funny poems and Dorothy Ward led everybody in the theatre in some community singing. The lead singer of the show was an up-and-coming name (or so the compère told the audience) – Conrad Merriman. Good-looking with deep-set eyes and black hair, Conrad was everybody’s idea of tall dark and handsome and when he smiled he had a long dimple on his cheek. Frankie didn’t like him that much but Barbara thought he was wonderful. After the show Barbara insisted they go to the stage door and she was amply rewarded when Conrad Merriman emerged.

  ‘Can I have your autograph?’ said Barbara, rushing towards him.

  ‘Of course, darling,’ he simpered and, giving her a kiss on her cheek, he signed her programme then looked up, expecting Frankie to want the same treatment. Embarrassed, Frankie handed him her programme and he signed it.

  ‘A few of us are going onto the pier for some ice cream,’ he said. ‘Would you care to join us?’

  Barbara was overjoyed so they joined in. There were several in the group including some of the dancing girls and another comedian called Stainless Steven. They all went to the kiosk and bought their cones, then everyone strolled along the wooden planks towards the other pavilion at the end of the pier. Conrad slipped his arm around Barbara’s waist and pulled her close.

  ‘Put her down, darling,’ someone said. ‘You don’t know where she’s been.’

  ‘She’s too young to have been anywhere,’ said another voice and everyone laughed.

  Barbara wasn’t too happy with that remark, but she was delighted when Conrad kissed her cheek again and said, ‘I think she’s absolutely gorgeous, aren’t you, darling?’

  Frankie struck up a conversation with one of the dancing girls, Lily, who said she was from York. ‘I love it here,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a booking for the whole season.’

  ‘You looked beautiful on the stage,’ Frankie said. ‘I loved the top hat routine.’

  Lily did a few steps just for her and they both laughed. Halfway along the pier, there was a photo booth. You could stand in behind a wooden frame with Tarzan, Jane and a monkey picture on it. The faces had been cut out so day trippers were invited to stick their heads through the holes and pose for a picture. Conrad stood behind the Tarzan cut out and invited Barbara to join him as Jane. Frankie was encouraged to bend down low and put her head through the monkey hole. While the photographer snapped away, Frankie was startled to feel Conrad’s hand wandering over her bottom. She stood up smartly.

  ‘Just one more,’ said the photographer but Frankie was already walking away.

  *

  A day or two later, they were sitting at the dinner table when Alan told his parents about meeting Mr Jarvis, Durrant’s promoter. ‘He’s going to take me on next year for the Isle of Man TT.’

  Uncle Lorry was bursting with excitement. ‘Dear Lord alive, you’ll be up there with all the best riders. What an experience, lad.’

  ‘No,’ said Aunt Bet. ‘Alan, you can’t go. It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘Now then, Bet love,’ Uncle Lorry began.

  ‘Don’t you “Now then, Bet love” me!’ she snapped and she banged a plate down in front of him. ‘You know Percy Pritlove was killed there last year.’

  ‘You can’t stop me, Mum,’ said Alan shaking the HP sauce onto his dinner. ‘I’m old enough to make my own decisions.’

  ‘This is a chance of a lifetime, Bet,’ Lorry protested mildly. ‘You can’t say no just because you’re afraid he might get hurt.’

  Frankie could tell her aunt was upset but she didn’t say anything. As soon as the men went back outside and Aunt Bet stood up to put the plates in the sink, Frankie came and put her arm around her shoulders. ‘He’s a really good rider,’ she said. ‘He thinks things through and he doesn’t take stupid risks. That’s why he’s been chosen.’

  Aunt Bet nodded. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said. ‘And your uncle’s right as well. I’m just being silly. I know he’s a grown man but he’s still my boy.’

  The two women shared a hug. ‘And just look at you,’ said Aunt Bet suddenly holding her at arm’s length. ‘Soon to be sixteen and quite the young lady already.’ Frankie gave her a half smile. ‘What?’ said Aunt Bet. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Now you’ll think I’m being silly,’ said Frankie, sitting back down at the table.

  ‘Let me be the judge of that,’ said her aunt.

  All the time she’d lived with them, they’d never really talked about her mother. The grief they’d both felt, they’d kept it private. It wasn’t a deliberate decision, it just happened to be that way. Frankie knew any one of them would have listened if she’d needed to talk but she’d slipped into the habit of managing on her own.

  Frankie took a deep breath. ‘Before she left the shop, Doreen told me her mother had taken something from my house. Something belonging to my mother
– tarot cards.’

  Aunt Bet seemed surprised. ‘I can’t imagine your mother having tarot cards,’ she said. ‘I was the one who worried about the future and superstitions. I got it from your gran, I suppose. Your mother was different. She was very much a no-nonsense sort of person.’

  Frankie frowned. ‘What are tarot cards anyway?’

  ‘They’re supposed to be a guide for living,’ said Aunt Bet. ‘People use them to find out what’s going to happen in the future.’

  After hearing that, Frankie had to agree that her aunt was probably right. Her mother had had no time for what she called mumbo-jumbo, such as predicting the future.

  ‘Anyway, why would Doreen’s mother take something that didn’t belong to her?’ said Aunt Bet. ‘I thought she was religious.’

  ‘She is,’ said Frankie.

  ‘Then what was she doing stealing Moira’s things?’

  ‘Doreen seemed to think she was trying to save me.’

  Aunt Bet frowned and shook her head slowly.

  ‘I often think about the things my mother had,’ Frankie said wistfully. ‘I remember some playing cards and a white cat that used to be on the mantelpiece.’ She smiled. ‘She always told me not to touch it but when she wasn’t looking, I used to stroke it.’

  Aunt Bet laid her hand gently over the top of Frankie’s. ‘Stay there, ducks,’ she said. ‘I want to show you something.’

  Her aunt hurried upstairs and came back down a few minutes later with a little suitcase. As she seldom dusted up high, the case was covered with a thick layer of grime. She found a damp cloth and a moment or two later, she put the case in front of Frankie.

  ‘I wasn’t sure when to give you this,’ she said. ‘I was going to wait until you left home or when you got married but I think now is the right time.’

  Frankie looked up. ‘I’ve never seen this before.’