Better Days will Come

PAM WEAVER

Better Days Will Come

Copyright

AVON

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2012

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Pam Weaver 2012

Pam Weaver asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847562685

Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2012 ISBN: 9780007453283

Version: 2018-07-23

Dedication

To my two beautiful daughters, Cathy and Maggie.

I am blessed beyond measure to be their mum.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Grace’s Cut and Come Again Cake recipe

Giving up Baby

Just the Ticket

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

Prologue

He was fingering the chain, letting it run through his fingers. Was it time to let the locket go? Would he ever need it? After all, nobody suspected a thing. Why should they in a sleepy backwater like Worthing? He might not have the heady power of previous years but that was no bad thing. When you reached the top, there were any number of people wanting to take you out. It had been a stroke of genius living here. The best place to hide was where everyone could see you. Which brought him back to the locket and the little secret inside. Keep it, or ditch it? He held it up to the light and realised that he wasn’t ready to burn all his bridges just yet. All he needed was somewhere safe.

One

Worthing 1947

‘Looks like they’re going to make a start on repairing the pier at last,’ Grace Rogers called out as she entered the house but there was no reply. She pulled her wet headscarf from her head and shook it. Water droplets splattered the back of the chair. She ran her fingers through her honey blonde hair which curled neatly at the nape of her neck and then unbuttoned her coat and hung it on a peg behind the front door.

She was a small woman, with a neat figure, pale eyes and long artistic fingers. She’d missed the bus and had to wait for another, so she was soaked. Someone had said that the Littlehampton Road was flooded between Titnore Lane and Limbrick Lane. She wasn’t surprised. The rain hadn’t let up all week. She kicked off her boots. Her feet were wet too but that was hardly surprising either. There was a hole in the bottom of her left shoe. Grace pulled out a soggy piece of cardboard, the only thing between her foot and the pavement, and threw it into the coalscuttle.

The two reception rooms downstairs had been knocked into one and the kitchen range struggled to heat such a large area. The fire was low. Using an oven glove, Grace opened the door and put the poker in. The fire resettled and flared a little. She added some coal, not a lot, tossed in the soggy cardboard, and closed the door. Coal was still rationed and it was only November 12th. Winter had hardly started yet.

‘Bonnie?’

No response. Perhaps she was upstairs in her room. Grace opened the stair door and called up but there was no answer. She glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. Almost three thirty. It would be getting dark soon. Where was the girl? It was early closing in Worthing and Bonnie had the afternoon off, but she never went anywhere, not this time of year anyway, and certainly not in this weather. Rita, her youngest, would be coming back from school in less than an hour.

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.

The passengers who were getting off at Worthing were already starting to head towards the barrier as she thrust the ticket at Manny Hart. He clipped it and went to hand it back but Grace was already at the top of the stairs leading to the underpass which came up on the other side and platform 2. Now she was hampered by the steady flow of people coming in the opposite direction.

‘Close all the doors.’

The porter’s cry echoed down the stairs and into the underpass. The train shuddered again and just as she reached the stairwell leading up she heard the powerful shunt of steam and smoke which heralded its departure. She was only half way up the stairs leading to platform 2 when the guard blew his whistle and the lumbering giant was on the move. How she got to the top of the stairs, she never knew but as soon as she emerged onto the platform she knew it was hopeless. Through the smoke and steam, the last two carriages were all that was left. The train was gone.

Someone was walking jauntily towards her, a familiar figure, well dressed, confident and whistling as he came. He flicked his hat with his finger and pushed it back on his head and his coat, open despite the rain, flapped behind him as he walked. Norris Finley, her boss, was a lot heavier and far less attractive than when they were younger but he still behaved like cock of the walk. What was he doing here? Usually, Grace would turn the other way if she saw him coming but her mind was on other things. Throwing aside her usual reserve, she roared out Bonnie’s name. As the train gathered speed, she burst into helpless heart-rending tears, and putting her hands on the top of her head, she fell to her knees.

‘Are you all right, love?’ She heard a woman’s voice, kind and concerned. The woman bent over her and touched her arm.

‘Grace?’ said Norris. ‘You seem a bit upset. Anything I can do?’

Grace heard him but didn’t respond. She was still staring at the disappearing train, and finally the empty track. She couldn’t speak but she felt two arms, one on either side, helping her to her feet. Where was Bonnie going? Who on earth did she know in London?

‘Do you know her, dear?’ the woman’s voice filtered through Grace’s befuddled brain.

‘Yes.’ The man was raising his hat. ‘Norris Finley of Finley’s International,’ he said.

The woman nodded. ‘I’ll leave you to it then, sir,’ and patting Grace’s arm she said, ‘I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think, dear.’

Norris tucked his hand under Grace’s elbow and led her back down the stairs into the gloomy underpass.

‘She’s gone,’ Grace said dully when they were alone. ‘My Bonnie has left home.’

‘Left home?’

She was crying again so they walked on in silence with Grace leaning heavily on his arm. Norris winked as he handed his ticket to Manny Hart and steered Grace onto the concourse.

‘Is she all right?’ said Manny, suddenly concerned. He took off his hat and scratched his slightly balding head.

‘Mrs Rogers has had a bit of an upset, that’s all,’ said Norris pleasantly.

‘If you had let me go,’ Grace said, suddenly rounding on Manny, ‘I might have been able to stop my daughter making the biggest mistake of her life.’

Manny looked uncomfortable. ‘I cannot help that,’ he said defensively. ‘You know I would do anything for you, Grace. The men on the platform were government inspectors for when the railway goes national next year. Rules are rules and I have to obey.’

‘Mrs Rogers … Grace,’ said Norris. ‘You’re soaked to the skin. Let me take you home. My car is just outside.’

‘Your paper, sir,’ said Manny.

‘Eh?’ Norris seemed a little confused.

‘You dropped your paper.’ He handed him a rolled-up newspaper.

‘Oh, right,’ grinned Norris, taking it from him.

Manny watched them go.

‘Nice man, that Mr Finley,’ the woman remarked as she handed Manny her ticket and he nodded.

Outside it was still tipping with rain. ‘I’ll walk,’ said Grace stiffly. ‘It’s not far and I’m wet through anyway.’

There were still people waiting for taxis or buses. ‘Absolutely not, my dear Mrs Rogers,’ Finley insisted. ‘Hop in.’

As he climbed into the car, he handed her his folded handkerchief before they set off. He drove away like a madman but her mind was so full of Bonnie, Grace hardly noticed. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Outside her house, Grace turned to him. ‘She left me a note,’ she said hopelessly. ‘I found it when I got in from work.’

‘Where’s she gone?’

Grace looked up at him. ‘That’s just it,’ she said. ‘I don’t know. All she said was she had to leave Worthing.’

‘Had to leave?’ He raised his eyebrows and let out a short sigh. ‘Ah well, you can’t keep her tied to your apron strings all her life. She’s a sensible girl, isn’t she? She’ll be fine.’

Grace’s eyes grew wide. ‘Promise me you didn’t have anything to do with this?’

‘Of course I didn’t! Why should I?’

‘Why were you there then? What were you doing on the platform?’

‘I’ve been in Southampton on business,’ he said irritably.

‘Did you see her get on the train?’

‘No, but then I’m hardly likely to, am I?’ he said. ‘I travel first class. Does Bonnie travel first class? No, I didn’t think so, so why would I have seen her? Don’t be so melodramatic, Grace.’

Grace fumbled for the door handle but couldn’t open the door. ‘I didn’t expect any sympathy from you but Bonnie leaving like this … it’s breaking my heart.’

‘For God’s sake, Grace. Nobody died, did they?’ Norris said coldly. ‘She’ll be fine.’ He got out of the car and came round to the passenger side. Just as he opened the door Grace’s neighbour walked by under a large umbrella.

‘There you are, Mrs Rogers,’ Norris said loudly and cheerfully as he stepped back. ‘Back home safe and sound. Can I help you with your door key?’

Grace shook her head. The door was open anyway. She hadn’t stopped to lock it. She turned and he waved cheerfully as he got back into his car. He drove off at speed, leaving Grace standing like a dumb thing on the pavement.

‘You’ll catch your death of cold,’ said a voice. ‘You look soaked to the skin.’ Their eyes met and she hesitated. ‘You all right, Grace?’ Her neighbour who lived next-door-but-one, Elsie Dawson, was on her step putting her key into her own door. Dougie, her son, stood behind his mother waiting for her to open it. Elsie, her middle son Dougie and daughter Mo were good friends with Rita and Bonnie, and they had all enjoyed sharing times like Christmas and Easter together. Bob, Elsie’s oldest boy, was in the army now andMo was in the same class as Rita at school but Dougie was what the powers that be called ‘retarded’, a term which made Grace cross. He might struggle with understanding, but he wasn’t stupid. Once he knew what you wanted, Dougie would put his hand to anything.

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Grace said with as much dignity as she could muster. But once inside the house, she sat alone on the cold stairs and gave way to her tears once again.

As the train sped towards London, Bonnie stared out of the window. She should have done this earlier in the day while she still had the opportunity. The light was going and by the time she reached Victoria station it would be dark. Never mind, George would be there to meet her. If for some reason they missed each other, he’d told her to wait by the entrance of platform 12.

She had finished work a lot earlier than she’d thought she would. The people in the wages department had worked out that she was owed a half day’s holiday so rather than give her the extra in her wage packet, she had been told she could go by ten o’clock. Seeing as how she had arranged to meet George in time for the train, it meant she had a couple of hours to kill. Her case was already in the left luggage department at Worthing and she couldn’t go back home, so she went to his digs.

Mrs Kerr, his landlady, was her usual unwelcoming self. ‘He’s not here,’ she’d said curtly, ‘and I have no time to entertain his guests.’ She had obviously taken her apron off to answer the door and now she was putting it back on again.

‘Do you know where he might be?’ Bonnie had asked.

‘He’s going to London.’

‘I know that,’ Bonnie had said. ‘I just wondered if he was still here.’

Mrs Kerr shrugged. ‘As far as I know, he’s gone to the old factory.’

Bonnie had frowned. ‘But why? It’s all shut up, isn’t it?’

‘All I know is he said he’d found something. Now I’m very busy.’

‘Do you know what he’d found?’ Bonnie persisted.

‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ Mrs Kerr snapped as she shut the door.

Bonnie had stood on the pavement wondering what to do. There was still plenty of time before the train so she’d decided to walk to the factory. She didn’t have to go right into West Worthing. There was a Jacob’s ladder in Pavilion Road which was between the stations and came out at the bottom of Heene Road. Although she was wearing her best shoes, which were quite unsuitable for walking, it hadn’t taken her long to get to Finley’s Knitwear.

She had met George Matthews at a dance in the Assembly Hall. He was a friend of a friend and they’d hit it off straight away. He was so debonair, so handsome and so unlike any of her other friends that it wasn’t long before she was hopelessly in love with him. He worked at the knitwear factory in Tarring Road, the same as her mother. He was a machine operator, while her mum worked in the packing room. George was getting good money but he was ambitious so when it was announced that the factory would be moving to new premises, he felt it was time to move on.