Better Days Will Come (11 page)

Someone tried the door latch and Rita sat up.

‘Who’s there?’

Her heart was bumping. Thank goodness Mum had told her to lock the door. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was much too early for Mum to come back – she’d only been gone for a half an hour – and besides she had her key.

The door latch went up again. Rita stood up and grabbed a towel. ‘Who is it?’ she called, willing her voice not to quiver.

‘It’s me, Rita. Uncle Charlie. Open the door. Your mum’s been hurt.’

Rita felt the panic rising in her chest. She wanted to run and open the door but how could she, covered with only a threadbare towel which barely went round her? ‘Just a minute.’

With no time to dry herself let alone get dressed she flew upstairs and pulled Mum’s old dressing gown from behind the bedroom door.

When she opened the door, Rita had a shock. Uncle Charlie was doing his best to hold her mother upright but Grace was like a rag doll in his arms. Together they helped her inside and onto a chair.

‘What happened?’

‘We was robbed,’ said Uncle Charlie. ‘Some blighter distracted me and his mate snatched the bag.’

Grace moaned and Rita could see a big lump on her forehead. The skin was already going blue and her mother was trembling from head to toe.

‘It’s the shock,’ said Uncle Charlie.

‘Shall I get the doctor?’ Rita asked anxiously.

‘No,’ said Grace. ‘Yes,’ said Uncle Charlie in unison.

‘We can’t afford it,’ said Grace.

Uncle Charlie dampened the end of the tea towel and then he put it over the bruise. Rita was happy to let him do it. He was a second at boxing matches and he knew what to do with a bump. Over the top of her mother’s head, he gave Rita the nod to go.

‘Will you stay with her?’ Rita mouthed.

Uncle Charlie nodded. ‘Have you got any butter?’

Rita got the butter dish from inside the dropdown cupboard then, grabbing her clean clothes from the clothes horse in front of the range, she raced back upstairs to dress. A couple of minutes later she was back downstairs. Uncle Charlie was rubbing butter onto the huge egg which had formed on her mother’s forehead. Rita grabbed her coat and ran.

When she got back with the doctor, Grace had been sick and Rita was told to fetch Constable Higgins. She ran down to Station Approach and the blue police box. There was a telephone on the side for the use of members of the public. It connected her straight to the police station in the centre of town. Rita explained that her mother had been attacked and robbed and after giving the sergeant her name and address, she was told to go back home and wait for a uniformed officer to attend.

When she got back home, the doctor had just completed a thorough examination of her mother. As soon as she saw her, Grace was angry that Rita had sent for him, but the doctor shook his head. ‘You should be proud of her, Mrs Rogers,’ he said. ‘Head injuries can be very dangerous things. Fortunately, although you will probably have a very bad headache for a while, there is no lasting damage.’

Rita was so relieved she almost kissed him. Inside, she had been panicking. With her father dead and Bonnie gone, what would have happened to her if Mum had been seriously ill? For the first time in her life she’d realised just how fragile life was, how everything could change in an instant. She knew she was being selfish, but she resolved never to take her mother for granted again. Bonnie might have walked out on her but, from now on, Rita was going to be the best daughter in the world.

After telling Grace that an Aspro and bed rest was the best thing, the doctor left with his shilling and soon after a Constable Higgins stopped by and took statements.

‘Who knew you were going on the round?’ the constable asked. They were all sitting around the kitchen table.

‘Everybody,’ said Grace. ‘They were expecting me.’

‘And you started out from here at what time?’

Grace looked at Charlie and shrugged.

‘About seven,’ said Charlie.

The constable scribbled in his notebook. ‘And the attack happened at about eight o’clock by Station Approach?’

‘Yes,’ said Grace. ‘It’s a good job Charlie suggested changing the route. If we had gone the usual way, they’d have got a lot more.’

Constable Higgins frowned. ‘How d’you mean?’

‘I usually go to the end of road and walk up to Station Approach and back by Teville Gate and then I do Tarring Road,’ Grace explained. ‘Charlie persuaded me to go the other way round.’

‘Why did you do that, sir?’ asked Constable Higgins accusingly.

‘I thought she should vary the route,’ Charlie shrugged. ‘For safety’s sake.’

‘Good job you did,’ said Grace. ‘I heard someone shout just before the robber pushed me down.’

‘Mr Warren,’ said Constable Higgins. ‘He’s only just moved into the shop on the corner. He’s already made a statement.’

‘I think I owe my life to him,’ said Grace. ‘I’m sure that man would have kicked me senseless if Mr Warren hadn’t come running.’

‘How much money are we talking about?’ said the constable.

‘About £50,’ said Grace. ‘I only had a few houses to go to. Mrs Oakley, the Parsons, Miss Reeves, Mrs Clements and Mary Minty. Between them they had saved about £7 each through the year. I’d have to look in the books to know exactly how much.’

‘That’s a lot of money,’ said Constable Higgins giving her a disapproving stare.

‘I know,’ Grace sighed.

The constable pursed his lips. ‘You’d be well advised to get everybody to come to you next time, Missus.’

‘There won’t be a next time,’ said Grace bitterly. She leaned forward on the table and laid her head onto her arms.

‘I think my mum needs to get to bed,’ said Rita.

There was a shuffling of chairs and the men got up to go. By the time Uncle Charlie had left, Grace was crying.

‘Does it really hurt that bad, Mum?’

‘No, it’s not that,’ said her mother. ‘It’s the money. I’ve let all those poor people down.’

‘I’m sure they’ll understand, Mum.’

‘They need that money, Rita,’ said Grace. ‘Whether they understand or not isn’t the problem. I’ll have to pay it all back. Dear Lord above, where am I going to get another £50 to replace it?’

Grace woke with a sore head. She lay for a while going over the events of the previous night. She should have waited and gone on the rounds in daylight but she hadn’t wanted the money in the house overnight. The post office was open on Saturday morning so why hadn’t she drawn the money first thing and done the round in the afternoon? And it would have been far more sensible to do what Constable Higgins had suggested and have everyone come to her. She could see now what a fool she had been.

She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. It felt funny. She climbed out of bed. The room was so cold she could see her own breath. She pulled the eiderdown off the bed and around her shoulders and looked at herself in the dressing table mirror. What a sight. Her right eye was as black as the ace of spades. Her forehead was like an artist’s paint palette, a mixture of red graze and blue bruise with a hint of green and purple, although the egg-sized swelling had gone down. She had a graze at the corner of her mouth and her bottom lip, the cause of her discomfort, was slightly swollen. She looked as if she’d done ten rounds with Bruce Woodcock, the British and Empire heavyweight boxing champion. When she touched her forehead, it hurt like hell.

Grace lowered herself onto the bed again and pulled the old eiderdown tight around her shoulders. Boy, was she stiff. She was supposed to go to the police station to make a proper statement but it was the last thing she wanted to do. Constable Higgins had been confident that they would catch the thief but they didn’t hold out much hope of getting the money back. ‘He’ll have put most of it down his neck long before we catch up with him,’ Higgins said bleakly.

Grace sighed. She would have to go round and see everyone, explain and apologise. She’d promise that no matter how long it took, they would get their money back … not this Christmas but maybe in time for next. She shivered with cold but she wasn’t ready to face the world just yet so she climbed back into bed and tried to work out how much money she could lay her hands on.

She had saved £6 12s 9d for herself plus the tiny bit of commission she took for running the club. She would use that, but what about the rest? She looked around the room. What could she sell? If only she hadn’t used that brooch money on a fruitless trip to London. Still, she hadn’t known it would lead to nothing when she’d set out, had she? It was worth a try, but what was left that was of any value now that she needed it? Answer: not much. Most of her furniture was years old. She’d only get pennies for it. The grandmother clock downstairs would have to go. It needed a proper professional clean but she still might get five pounds for that. There was Michael’s cup. It would be hard to part with it, because apart from a couple of faded photographs, and his battered leather chair, it was her only link with him. She felt her throat tightening and her eyes pricking. Cyril Harper the rag-and-bone man and that man selling antiques only lived at the other end of the street from each other. Perhaps she could ask him about the chair but she couldn’t let Michael’s cup go.

But there was her piano. She might get £7 or £8 for that. Grace wiped her eyes with her hand and looked at her wedding ring. She twisted it but it wouldn’t come over the knuckle. She suppressed a sob. Oh Michael …

There was a soft knock on the door. ‘Cup of tea, Mum?’

‘Thanks, love,’ said Grace, dabbing her eyes with the sheet and pulling herself up the bed.

Rita put the tea on the bedside table. Her chin was quivering. ‘Oh Mum …’

It was obvious from Rita’s expression that she was worried about Grace’s face. ‘It looks worse than it feels,’ she said.

‘They could have killed you,’ said Rita.

‘But they didn’t,’ said Grace softly, ‘so let’s not worry about something that didn’t happen, eh?’

Rita headed for the door. ‘Do you want me to come to the station with you, Mum?’

‘That would be nice. Are you sure you don’t mind?’

‘Of course not. You’re my mother.’

Grace turned her head away. Rita sniffed loudly. ‘I’ve raked the fire and got it going,’ she said in a businesslike way. ‘I’ve put your clothes to warm on the clothes horse.’

Grace managed a smile and Rita closed the door.

Once up and dressed, Grace wasted no time in going to the police station. She kept her headscarf loose around her face and walked with her head down in an effort to hide her bruises. The statement didn’t take long.

‘And you are certain of the time?’ asked the inspector.

‘Salvatore Semadini was washing the windows of the Railway Café,’ said Grace. ‘We passed the time of day.’

The inspector narrowed his eyes. ‘You know him well?’

‘My daughter does a Saturday morning job there,’ said Grace. ‘At least she did until a week or two ago.’

Salvatore had asked her when Rita was coming back but Grace had been so anxious to get the round done, she’d told him shecouldn’t stop. She remembered seeing the time on the big clock inside the café.

‘Tell her we miss her,’ Salvatore had called after her. ‘Tell her to come for her Christmas box.’

‘You and Liliana come over to our place on Christmas Day,’ she’d called over her shoulder.

‘Could he have followed you?’ the inspector asked.

‘Salvatore?’ Grace gasped. ‘I don’t know what you’re suggesting but he is as honest as the day is long. Besides I saw him go back into the shop with his bucket.’

After a rather tetchy interview, Grace and Rita caught the bus back. They were hardly back inside the door before Grace was getting ready to go back out again.

Rita was alarmed. ‘The doctor said you should rest, Mum.’

‘I’ve got to tell everyone what’s happened,’ said Grace.

By the time afternoon came, Grace was exhausted. Despite Rita’s offer to tell her savers that their money was gone, Grace insisted that she do it herself. Rita knew how stubborn her mother could be, so rather than pick a fight, she decided to go with her.

‘It’s better coming from me,’ Grace insisted and she was right. Once they saw the state of her, Grace was met by a mixture of alarm, concern and understanding rather than the hostility she’d dreaded. Given time, the bruises would fade, but the humiliation Grace felt as she begged forgiveness and asked for time to repay the money would take a lot longer to heal.

As the day wore on she leaned more heavily on Rita’s arm. She was feeling weak but as soon as they got back home and had had a bite to eat, Grace said she was going to the Clifton Arms.

‘Whatever do you want to go there for?’ Rita’s voice was shrill with anxiety. Her mother should be resting. All this rushing about was making her look really pale.

Grace didn’t answer. She wanted to conserve what little energy she had for the landlord, Taffy Morgan, rather than wasting it on a futile argument. Her mind was made up. Taffy, it was rumoured, was looking for a piano.

Built around 1863, and named after the Clifton Suspension Bridge, the public house was frequented by the people of New Town, a development of small terraced houses which had been built in Clifton Road, way back in Victorian times. The name still stuck with the old timers in the town.

Grace had fond memories of the Clifton Arms. Before the war, in 1936, the Worthing and District Homing Pigeon Society had held their annual prize night in there and Michael, as winner for three years in a row, had won a silver cup outright.

The piano raised a healthy £6 10s, but it was a solemn pair who returned to the cold house late in the afternoon. Even with the sale of piano, Grace still had a long way to find an awful lot more money to replace what the thief had taken, and from now on, there was little hope of raising more than pennies. She had nothing else of value.

Apart from Michael’s cup. She looked up at the mantelpiece. It was good quality silver and the only engraving was on theplinth, which meant it could be used for something else. The cup had been her rock all through the war. Her security. How many times had she said, ‘if things get really bad, we can always sell your father’s cup’, but they never had. Somehow, they’d pull through and Michael’s pride and joy stayed where it was. She sighed. The time had come at last to let it go.