Desperate Measures
KITTY NEALE
Desperate Measures
This book is for my adorable new great grandson, Michael Andrew Blofeld. May your life be a joyous one, my darling, full of love, laughter, and a smooth path to carry you forward on life’s journey.
Table of Contents
The woman knew that what she wanted to do was justified, not just for her, but for the others that she had managed to bring into her small circle. It was a lovely day, the sun bright, yet impatiently she tugged her small dog’s lead, too intent on finding her next recruit to appreciate her surroundings. Her life had been ruined and she’d been eaten up with bitterness–but now she had a mission.
She wasn’t the only woman who’d suffered and it wasn’t right, wasn’t fair that these men had got away with it. Her goal now was to make them pay–to make
him
pay.
To that end she got up every morning, went to work, functioned–but it was as though she were living her life on automatic. Her plans and schemes had become the focus of her whole life and she couldn’t rest until they’d been carried out. Since the day it had happened, since he’d destroyed her life, she’d wanted only one thing. Revenge.
Battersea, South London, 1969
Though it was early on Saturday morning there were already signs that it was going to be a lovely day and the sunshine drew Betty out of her poky flat to the park on the opposite side of the road.
She walked for a while, but it was unusually warm for June and, feeling hot, Betty sat on a bench. The park began to fill and she frowned as two young women walked towards her, still unable to get used to the way youngsters dressed nowadays. They were both in A–line mini–dresses, one blonde, one dark, their hair cut short in the geometrical shapes made popular by the hairdresser Vidal Sassoon. Make–up was skilfully applied–heavy, but at least they weren’t wearing the thick, black, false eyelashes that were at last going out of fashion.
Betty sighed. She was fifty-one now, but as a young woman a bit of powder and lipstick was all she’d been allowed to wear, and her clothes had been respectable, in the same style as her mother’s. And not only that–what about underwear? These young girls didn’t wear vests or corsets and, worse, sometimes they went without a brassiere. She shook her head. Anne, her twenty–nine–year–old daughter, accused her of being old–fashioned, saying that things were different now. Women were no longer shackled to men, Anne insisted. They had freedom, equality, the means to make their own way in the world.
The two young women walked past without sparing her so much as a glance, and Betty blinked away tears as a surge of loneliness swamped her. She watched a small, brown dog as it circled a tree, sniffing the trunk until, finally satisfied, it lifted its leg.
‘Treacle, come here,’ a woman’s voice called.
Betty saw the dog’s ears twitch, but intent on exploring fresh pastures the command was ignored. It trotted towards the bench she was sitting on, tail up, and obviously liking what it saw, reared up to place its paws on Betty’s lap.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Get down, Treacle.’
Whilst stroking the dog’s head, Betty looked up at his owner. She’d seen the elegant, middle–aged woman before, had noticed her dark brown hair, styled into a French pleat that emphasised her high cheekbones. ‘It’s all right, I like dogs,’ she assured her.
‘Not everyone feels the same and he’s a holy terror. I shouldn’t have let him off the lead, but I’m trying to get him to obey me,’ she chuckled. ‘As you can see, it isn’t working.’
‘He looks so sweet.’
‘Don’t let that fool you,’ the woman said as she sat down. Treacle immediately jumped onto her lap and she laughed as his tongue slobbered her face. ‘Oh, what am I saying? He’s a darling really but, as I said, he won’t obey my commands.’
‘What breed is he?’
‘He’s a Bitsa. You know, bits of this and bits of that.’
As Betty smiled, Treacle turned to look at her again, his head cocked, soft brown eyes intent on her face. He then left his owner, moving across to sit on Betty’s lap, his tongue soft and wet on her cheek.
‘He likes you,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Val by the way. Valerie Thorn.’
‘I’m Betty. Betty Grayson.’
Treacle jumped down, heading for the nearest tree as Val said, ‘It’s nice to meet you at last. We live in the same block of flats and since you moved in I’ve been meaning to introduce myself, but, well, you know how it is.’
‘Yes, all the tenants seem so busy and I hardly see them, but it’s nice to meet you too. You’re on the ground floor aren’t you?’
‘That’s right, in a one–bedroom flat. I live alone. What about you?’
Betty’s expression saddened. ‘Yes, me too, though not by choice.’
Valerie Thorn’s eyebrows rose, but then seeing that her dog was running off she rose swiftly to her feet. ‘Blast, I’d best go after him. Treacle! Treacle,’ she called, and after saying a hasty goodbye, she hurried off.
After this brief interlude, Betty was alone again. It wasn’t unusual. Living in London was different from her life in Surrey, the pace of it much faster, all hustle and bustle, with everyone intent on their own business. Since moving into her flat in Ascot Court she found it the same as previous ones in London, the other tenants seeming not only busy, but distant and remote. All they’d exchanged were quick hellos, but at least she’d met one of them now and felt a surge of gratitude that Valerie Thorn had at least stopped to speak to her. She’d seen the woman a few times, judged her by appearance, her hard veneer, and had expected the woman to be brittle, perhaps standoffish. Instead she’d found her warm with a lovely sense of humour, and hoped that she’d bump into her again.
Betty stood up, deciding to go home in case one of her children rang, or even paid her a visit, which would be wonderful. As she walked towards the gate a young couple were coming towards her–hippies, the girl wearing a cotton, flowing maxi–dress, with strands of love beads around her neck. Her hair was long, fair and, with a flower tucked behind her ear, she looked carefree, happy. When Betty looked at her young man she saw that he was wearing a colourful kaftan, purple trousers and sandals, his hair almost as long as the girl’s. Betty thought he looked disgraceful–if her son dressed like that she would die of shame.
The couple were intent on each other as they passed, their faces wreathed in smiles, and now Betty felt a surge of envy. They were in love. She had felt like that once–just once in her life; but oh, what a fool she had been–a blind, stupid fool.
Betty saw the red Mini pull up in front of the flats as soon as she left the park, and was delighted when her daughter climbed out. It never ceased to amaze her that Anne had her own car, or even that she could drive–something Betty would never have dreamed of achieving as a young woman and something she still couldn’t master. Of course, when she was Anne’s age few women drove; in fact, unless one was very well–off, a car was a rarity. She’d married Richard when she was eighteen years old and felt fortunate to have a bicycle, one that she rode to the local village, the basket on the front crammed with local produce as she cycled home.
Home
. Her stomach lurched. No, she couldn’t think about it, not when Anne was standing there, a bright smile on her face.
‘Hi, Mum. I can’t stay long but I thought I’d pop round to see how you’re doing.’
‘I’d hardly call driving from Farnham popping round,’ Betty said as they walked into the flats where, after climbing two flights of stairs, she opened her front door.
Anne followed her in, her face dropping as she took in the small living room. ‘Oh, Mum, this is almost as bad as your last place.’
‘It has a nice outlook and after the pittance I got as a settlement, it’s all I can afford.’
‘Please, Mum, don’t start. We’ve had argument after argument about this, but you still refuse to see Dad’s point of view.’
She clamped her lips together. Her daughter had always been a daddy’s girl and, despite everything, she was quick to jump to Richard’s defence. He had spoiled Anne, indulged her love of horse riding, but Betty knew that if she said any more Anne would leave. She hadn’t seen her since moving into this flat, and the last thing she wanted was for her to leave after five minutes. Forcing a smile, she asked, ‘What would you like to drink?’
‘A bottle of Coke if you’ve got one.’
‘Yes, of course I have,’ Betty assured her as she went through to her tiny kitchenette. Coca–Cola was something Anne always asked for on her rare visits, so she kept a couple of bottles in the fridge for just such an occasion. Betty found the bottle opener, snapped off the top, and asked as she returned to the living room, ‘Have you heard from your brother?’
‘No, John’s too busy with his latest conquest.’
‘At least he isn’t like his father.’
‘Mum,’ warned Anne.
Betty regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth, but it was hard to stay silent in the face of her daughter’s loyalty to Richard. She felt that, like her, Anne should hate her father for what he’d done–that she should be on
her
side, but instead Anne had refused to cut him out of her life. When it happened, Anne had been twenty–five, living away from home, though still in Surrey, in a flat–share with another young woman. Her son, John, had been twenty–eight, a surveyor, but with her help he was buying a mews cottage. Unlike Anne he’d been sympathetic to Betty, severing all ties with his father. For that she was thankful, but with his busy career she rarely saw her son these days.
‘How’s Anthony?’ Betty enquired, hoping that asking about Anne’s boyfriend would mollify her daughter.
‘He’s still pushing to get married, but I’m happy to stay as we are. I mean, what’s the point? It’s only a ring and a piece of paper.’
Betty managed to hold her tongue this time. When Anne had met her boyfriend eighteen months ago they’d soon moved in together and she’d been shocked to the core, glad that she no longer lived in Farnham for her neighbours to witness her shame. It had also surprised her that, according to Anne, her father didn’t object, but as he’d lived in sin until their divorce came through he was hardly a good example.
‘What about children? You’re twenty–nine now.’
‘I’m up for promotion and a baby would ruin that. I’m happy to stay as we are.’
‘You could still become pregnant. If that happens, surely you’ll marry?’
‘I’m on the pill so there’s no chance of unwanted babies. Anyway, I’m not a hundred per cent sure that I want to spend the rest of my life with Tony. Living together is ideal. It’s like a trial marriage and if things don’t work out we can both walk away without regrets.’
Despite herself, Betty found that she envied her daughter. There had been no trial marriage for her–no chance to find out that her husband was a womaniser before he’d put a ring on her finger. Divorce had been frowned on too, so when she married Richard she’d expected it to be for life. Instead, at forty–seven years old, she’d been cruelly discarded, as though Richard had thrown out an old, worn–out coat.
‘Mum, I’ve got to go.’
‘But you’ve only just got here.’
‘I work all week and only have weekends off, with little time to go riding. It was you who decided to move to London, so it’s difficult for me. I’d like to see more of you, but it’s a long drive and with so much to cram in each weekend, I’m pushed for time.’
Anne was part of the country scene and, with her, horses came first. ‘I know and I’m sorry. It’s just that I miss you.’
‘And I miss you, Mum, but I really have got to go. Tony and I have booked a holiday to Spain and I need a couple of outfits. I couldn’t find anything swish in Farnham so I’m off to Selfridges.’
‘Spain! You’re going abroad?’
‘Yes, next Saturday, but only for a week. We got a good price on a flight with Laker Airways.’
‘You’re…you’re flying?’
‘Don’t look so shocked. I know your idea of a holiday is a caravan in Margate, but things are changing nowadays, with more people going abroad. I doubt I’ll see you again until we get back, but I’ll send you a postcard.’
Anne then swallowed the last of her drink, picked up her bag, and left in a whirlwind before Betty got the chance to say a proper goodbye. With a small wave her daughter was gone, hurrying down the stairs while Betty managed to gather her wits in time to call, ‘Have a good time.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
Betty closed the door. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected to holiday abroad, but as Anne had a career as a personnel officer with a large company in Farnham, and Tony was an engineer, no doubt they could afford it. Once again Betty felt a frisson of envy, which was soon followed by a familiar bitterness. Unlike her daughter, she’d never had a career, her life spent intent on being the perfect wife and mother. She had married Richard in 1936, and John had followed a year later. They hadn’t been well–off and it was sometimes a struggle to make ends meet, but then war had been declared and Richard eventually called up. Anne was conceived when Richard had been on leave and when he returned to the fighting she’d been terrified of losing him.
When the war was over, she’d been overjoyed that Richard came home without a scratch, but he was different, more self–assured, and full of ideas to start up his own business. He’d been taught to drive, had been involved in vehicle maintenance, and had picked up the idea that cars were going to be the up–and–coming thing after the war, available not just to the wealthy, but the middle classes too. To start up the car dealership they had to make many sacrifices, yet she’d supported him one hundred per cent. Her neighbours were getting modern appliances, vacuum–cleaners, the latest electric boilers with mangles, but every penny that Richard made had to be ploughed back into the business. She’d continued to make do with hand–washing, had used brushes and brooms, with her little spare time spent knitting or sewing to make clothes for both herself and the children. She smiled grimly. Of course Richard had to make an impression, so he’d worn nice suits…
Her thoughts were interrupted as the telephone rang. She hurried to answer it, thrilled to hear her son’s voice. ‘John, how are you?’
Unaware that she had a huge grin on her face, Betty listened to her son, pleased to hear that he was doing well, though disappointed when he said that he was too busy to pay her a visit. ‘But I haven’t seen you for ages,’ she protested.
John made his usual excuses, and then Betty told him, ‘Anne called round today. She’s booked a holiday to Spain.’
He didn’t sound all that interested and soon said he had to go. Betty replaced the receiver, her smile now gone as she wandered over to the window. She looked across to the park, wishing that she still had a garden to fill her time. When married to Richard she’d spent hours gardening, growing fruit and vegetables to save money on food bills and, though it had been hard work, she’d grown to love it.
The sky was blue, with just a few white, puffy clouds, and now that Betty knew John wouldn’t be paying her a visit, she was tempted to go out again. She could walk to the pond, feed the ducks–it would be better than sitting here alone. When she threw bread the ducks would leave the pond to crowd around her; they’d be aware of her existence, and at least for a short time she wouldn’t feel as she always did in London–invisible.
