Pam Weaver - Better Days will Come

Grace dried her hair with a towel while the kettle boiled. Her bones ached with weariness. She’d jumped at the chance to do an extra shift because even with Bonnie’s wages, the money didn’t go far. When Michael died in the D-Day landings, she’d never imagined bringing up two girls on her own would be so difficult. Still, she shouldn’t grumble. She was a lot better off than some. Even if the rent did keep going up, at least she had a roof over her head, and the knitwear factory, Finley International, where she worked, was doing well. They were producing more than ever, mostly for America and Canada. The war had been over for eighteen months and the country needed all the exports it could get. A year ago they had all hoped that the good times were just around the corner but if anything, things were worse than ever. Even bread was rationed now, and potatoes. Three pounds per person per week, that was all, and that hadn’t happened all through the dark days of the war.

Her hair towelled dry, Grace glanced up at the clock again. Where was Bonnie? She said she’d be home to help with the tea. She screwed up some newspaper and stuffed it into the toes of her boots before putting them on the floor by the range. With a bit of luck they’d be dry in the morning.

Grace brushed her hair vigorously. She was lucky that it was naturally curly and she didn’t have any grey. The only time she went to the hairdresser was to have it cut.

The kettle boiled and Grace rinsed out the brown teapot before reaching for the caddy. Two scoops of Brooke Bond and she’d be as right as ninepence. She was looking forward to its reviving qualities. She sat at the table and reached for the knitted tea cosy.

The letter was underneath. It must have been propped against the salt and pepper and fallen over when she’d opened the door and created a draught. Grace picked it up. The envelope was unsealed. Was it meant for her or Bonnie? And who had put it there? She took out a single sheet of paper.

A glance at the bottom of the page told her it was from Bonnie. Grace sighed. That meant her daughter was either staying over with her friend from work, or she’d decided to go to the pictures with that new boy she was always going on about. Grace didn’t know his name but it was obvious Bonnie was smitten. They’d had words about it last night when Grace had seen her with a neatly wrapped present in striped paper and a red ribbon on the top. Bonnie had sat at the table and pulled out a dark green jewellery box. Grace knew at once that it had come from Whibley’s, a quality jeweller at the end of Warwick Street. Although she had never personally had anything from the shop, they advertised in every newspaper in the town and the box was instantly recognisable.

Before Bonnie had even lifted the lid, Grace had stopped her. ‘Don’t even be tempted,’ she cautioned. ‘Whatever it is, you can’t possibly keep it.’

Bonnie looked up, appalled. ‘Why ever not?’

‘You’re too young to be getting expensive presents from men,’ said Grace.

‘Oh, Mum,’ said Bonnie turning slightly to lift the lid. ‘I already know what’s inside. I just wanted to show you, that’s all.’

Grace caught a glimpse of some kind of locket on a chain before closing the box herself. ‘I mean it,’ she’d said firmly. ‘You hardly know this man and I’ve never met him. How do you know his intentions are honourable?’

Bonnie smiled mysteriously. ‘I know, Mum, and I love him.’

‘Don’t talk such rot,’ Grace had retorted angrily. ‘You’re far too young …’

Bonnie’s eyes blazed. ‘I’m the same age as you were when you met Daddy.’

‘That’s different,’ Grace had told her.

They had wrestled over the box with Bonnie eventually gaining the upper hand, and thinking about it now made Grace feel uncomfortable.

She got a cup and saucer down from the dresser and sat down. As she poured her tea Grace began to read:

Dear Mum,

I am sorry but I am going away. By the time you read this, I shall be on the London train. You are not to worry. I shall be fine. I just need to leave Worthing. I am sorry to let you down but this is for the best. I shall never forget you and Rita and I want you to know I love you both with all my heart. Please don’t think too badly of me.

All my love,

Bonnie.

As she reached the end of the page, Grace became aware that she was still pouring tea. Dark brown liquid trickled towards the page because it had filled her cup and saucer and overflowed onto her tablecloth. Her hand trembled as she put the teapot back onto the stand. Her mind struggled to focus. On the London train. It had only been a silly tiff. Why go all the way to London? She glanced up at the clock. That train would be leaving the station in less than five minutes. She leapt to her feet and grabbed her boots. It took an age to get all the newspaper out before she could stuff her feet back inside the wet leather. I just need to leave Worthing. Why? What did that mean? Surely she wasn’t going for good. Her mind struggled to make sense of it. You’re only 18, Bonnie. You always seemed happy enough. Grace stumbled out into the hall for her coat. The back of her left boot stubbornly refused to come back up. She had to stop and use her finger to get the heel in properly but there was no time to lace them. As she dashed out of the door she paused only to look at the grandmother clock. Four minutes before the train was due to leave. Without stopping to lock up, she ran blindly down the street, her unbuttoned coat flapping behind her like a cloak and her boots slopping on her feet. Water oozed between the stitches, forming little bubbles as she ran.

There were lights on in the little shop on the corner of Cross Street and Clifton Road and the new owner looked up from whatever he was doing to stare at her as she ran down the middle of the road towards him. The gates were already cranking across the road as she burst into Station Approach. She could feel a painful stitch coming in her side but she refused to ease up. The rain was coming down steadily and by now her hair was plastered to her face. As she raced up the steps of the entrance, the train thundered to a halt on platform 2.

Manny Hart, neat and tidy in his uniform and with his mouth organ tucked into his top pocket, stood at the entrance to the station platform with his hand out. ‘Tickets please.’ If he was surprised by the state of her, he said nothing.

‘I’ve got to get to the other side before the train leaves,’ Grace blurted out.

He glanced over his shoulder towards a group of men, all in smart suits, walking along the platform. ‘Then you’ll need a platform ticket.’ Manny seemed uncomfortable.

Grace’s heart sank. Her purse was sitting on the dresser in the kitchen. ‘I’ll pay you next time I see you.’

But Manny was in no mood to be placated. ‘You need a ticket,’ he said stubbornly. The men hovered by the entrance, while on the other side of the track the train shuddered and the steam hissed.

‘You don’t understand,’ Grace cried. ‘I’ve simply got to …’ Her hands were searching her empty pockets and she was beginning to panic. She was so angry and frustrated she could have hit him. She looked around wildly and saw a woman who lived just up the road from her. ‘Excuse me, Peggy. Could you lend me a penny for a platform ticket, only I must catch someone on the train before it goes.’

‘Of course, dear. Hang on a minute, I’m sure I’ve got a penny in here somewhere.’ Peggy Jones opened her bag, found her purse and handed Grace a penny. As it appeared in her hand, Grace almost snatched it and ran to the platform ticket machine, calling, ‘Thank you, thank you’ over her shoulder. To add to her frustration, the machine was reluctant to yield and she had to thump it a couple of times before the ticket appeared.