Kitty Neale - Desperate Measures

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.

Betty made herself a quick snack, and then stuffed a few slices of bread into a paper bag as her thoughts returned to her daughter. Unlike Anne, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a holiday. If she’d been treated fairly, she too could have gone overseas, but thanks to Richard it was impossible. It wasn’t fair, it just wasn’t, but there was nothing she could do about it – Richard and his solicitor had seen to that.

Valerie Thorn was standing at her window, her gaze following Betty Grayson as she left the flats. The woman had moved in upstairs about a month ago and since then Val had taken every opportunity to surreptitiously observe her. She had contrived to bump into the woman earlier in Battersea Park and at least now knew her name. Betty was a short, stocky woman, with a sad expression and browbeaten manner. Her clothes were old-fashioned, her light brown hair tightly permed, and Val judged her to be in her middle fifties.

Was Betty a possible candidate? The woman certainly looked unhappy, lost, with few visitors, which boded well. When Betty said she lived alone, but not by choice, there’d been bitterness in her voice and it increased Val’s interest. With her first plan already in mind, she knew it would take a third recruit for it to work, and if this woman was suitable, her group would be complete.

She would contrive to bump into Betty again, to open another conversation and perhaps make tentative overtures of friendship. If she could discover a shared interest it would break the ice, give them common ground, and then, when the time was right, she’d make her move.

Softly, softly catchee monkey, Val thought, turning away from the window. She’d been too wound up to eat breakfast, but now feeling peckish, her eyes avoided the empty mantelshelf as she went through to her tiny kitchenette to make a sandwich. It was her birthday, but she didn’t have one single card on show. Her mother had died when Val was just twenty-six, followed only three years later by her father. He’d been hit by a lorry when carelessly crossing the road and she’d been left bereft.

As an only child there’d been no siblings to share her grief, just two distant aunts and a few cousins that she hardly saw. Heartbroken, she’d channelled all her energies into her career, and whilst gaining promotion she hoped that if her parents were looking down on her, they’d be proud of what she’d achieved. She’d been so busy with her career that she’d lost touch with her scant relatives, yet on days like this, when the postman didn’t deliver even one card, she regretted it.

Val tried to push her unhappiness to one side but found it impossible. It was always the same on birthdays or Christmas, when, unbidden, memories of her happy childhood filled her mind. She’d been surrounded by laughter and love – but she wasn’t a child now, she was a mature woman, and it was silly to let things like birthday cards upset her.

If her parents were watching over her, it upset Val that they would have seen her life destroyed – seen her foolishness and therefore her failure. Her unhappiness now festered into anger, the sandwich tasting like sawdust in her mouth. There were times when Val’s rage almost consumed her and with a grunt she pushed her sandwich to one side. It was no good, she had to get out, to breathe fresh air and, as her possible candidate had gone to the park again, she would use the opportunity to bump into her. Val picked up the dog’s lead, calling, ‘Treacle, walkies.’

The dog’s ears pricked up and he immediately ran to her side, and with his lead on Treacle eagerly pulled her towards the door. He was her one consolation in life and she didn’t regret getting him from Battersea Dogs’ Home. He might be a bit naughty, but he was loving and loyal – but then that thought brought him to mind again and her lips thinned.

Val left the flat, crossed the road to the park, her eyes peeled for Betty Grayson. It was still a glorious day and the park was full of people intent on making the most of the brilliant weather. She unclipped Treacle’s lead and the dog scampered off ahead of her, but so far there was no sign of Betty. Val walked the paths, her eyes constantly on the look-out, but it was half an hour later before she saw the woman. Betty was sitting by the duck pond, partly concealed by the fronds of a willow tree.

Val drew in a deep gulp of air, forcing her shoulders to relax. Take it slowly – just be friendly, she told herself. She called Treacle and, knowing that the dog wouldn’t be able to resist chasing the wildfowl that Betty was feeding, she clipped on his lead.