Читать книгу Kitty Neale 3 Book Bundle - Kitty Neale - Страница 11

The Sunday roast had been eaten and as her mother stood up to clear the table, Amy saw how tired she looked. ‘Leave it, Mum. I’ll do it. You go and sit by the fire and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

‘There’s the washing up and I’ve got to collect Winnie’s plate.’

‘I’ll do that too.’

‘Thanks, love,’ Phyllis said gratefully as she took a seat by the fire, kicking off her slippers to rest her feet on the fender. ‘Winnie will want a cup of tea too and tell her I’ll pop round later to help her to bed.’

Amy stacked the plates before taking them through to the scullery. While waiting for the kettle to boil, Amy dwelled on how hard her mum worked. She was up at five every morning from Monday to Friday to do early morning office cleaning, and then did another stint between seven and nine in the evening at a local factory. To help all she could, Amy gave her mother most of the wages she earned from working in a shoe shop, but there never seemed to be enough money to go round. Though she loved her dad, Amy couldn’t help feeling a surge of resentment. If he stopped going to the pub nearly every night he could stump up more housekeeping, but she had never once heard her mother complain.

After giving her parents their drinks, Amy went out the kitchen door and stepped into their small, concrete yard, the back wall so high you had to be over six feet tall to see over it. The fog was still thick and she could barely see the gate, but managed to feel her way along the narrow walkway. The walls on the opposite side were tall too, and the narrow confines felt claustrophobic, but Amy was soon in Mrs Morrison’s identical yard. The old lady was in her eighties, very frail now and as she went in, Amy called, ‘Hello, Mrs Morrison, it’s only me.’

‘Hello, ducks,’ the old lady said.

‘I’ve just popped round for your plate,’ Amy said, seeing it on a small table by the fireside chair, frowning when she saw the amount still on it. ‘Oh, you haven’t finished your dinner yet. I’ll come back later.’

‘I’ve had my fill. Your mother’s a wonderful woman and I don’t know what I’d do without her, but she always gives me far too much to eat.’

To Amy the food looked barely touched, but she didn’t argue. ‘I’ll make you a drink, and Mum said she’ll pop round later.’

‘Thanks, Amy,’ Mrs Morrison said tiredly.

Amy brewed tea again then gave a cup to Winnie before picking up the dinner plate. ‘I’m off now. Bye, Mrs Morrison.’

‘You’re a good girl. Bye, pet,’ the old lady said.

Amy was soon home again, and tackled the washing up, putting everything away before she went into the living room. She smiled at the scene that greeted her. As usual, after dinner on a Sunday afternoon, her parents had fallen asleep by the fire. Amy crept out to visit her best friend, Caroline Cole whose name was always shortened to Carol. She lived two houses down, but to get to her front door you had to pass their neighbour, Mabel Povis. You couldn’t do anything without Mrs Povis knowing about it, and Amy was unsurprised to see the woman peeping out of her window. Despite this she was her mum’s friend so Amy gave her a small wave.

When Carol opened the door she put a finger to her lips to indicate that her parents too were asleep, before she and Amy went upstairs to her bedroom. It was freezing as they dived onto the single bed, pulling the blankets around them. There were magazine cut-outs of singers and film stars on the walls covering some of the pink flowered wallpaper. They were mostly of an American singer called Pat Boone, but Carol had gone off him lately.

Carol asked, ‘Have you seen Tommy?’

‘No, he’s still ill and in bed,’ Amy replied.

‘I don’t know what you see in him. He’s so thin, weedy looking, and when was the last time he was able to take you out?’

‘It was a week ago, and Tommy may be thin, but he’s tall and good looking,’ Amy said defensively.

‘You need a bloke who can show you a good time, not one who’s more often than not too ill to leave the house.’

‘He’s sure to get better soon,’ Amy said.

‘Even if he does, don’t let it get too serious,’ Carol advised. ‘You should play the field a bit first.’

Carol always spoke as if she was worldly and experienced, but though a flirt, she would never let a boy take liberties. To most people Carol appeared older and self-assured, but Amy knew there was another side to her. Underneath the hard veneer she was soft and caring, but with two older brothers to contend with while growing up, it rarely showed.

Amy smiled and said, ‘Thanks for the advice, but you know I’ve been out with other boys and most of them were like octopuses with their groping hands. Tommy’s different, he isn’t like that.’

‘Yeah, all right, I get the picture, but just because Tommy’s sick, I don’t see why you have to stay at home every night. Why don’t you come out with me for a change? We could go down to the youth club to play some records and jive to Bill Haley singing Rock around the Clock.’

‘You’ve been on about that song for months now.’

‘I know,’ Carol conceded, ‘but it’s so catchy. Davy and Paul reckon that big changes are coming, that singers like Alma Cogan and Ronnie Hilton will be out. Our parents can listen to them or Winifred Atwell on the piano, while we dance to rock and roll.’

Amy was an only child and wished that like Carol, she had two big brothers. Dave was twenty-one, Paul twenty-three, both tall with dark hair, and they were protective of their sister. When the boys had lived at home the house always seemed to be bursting at the seams and with only two bedrooms, Carol’s had just been a partitioned-off section of the boys’. Amy had had a crush on both of them, but they only saw her as a kid. When they’d left home to share a flat, Carol had the whole room to herself, but they were always popping home. ‘Have you seen your brothers today?’ Amy asked.

‘Yeah, they came round for dinner, but left soon after, leaving me as usual to help Mum with the washing up. It drives me mad the way they expect to be waited on, and my dad’s the same.’

‘When you’re a girl, it seems to be expected,’ Amy said.

Carol pouted and complained, ‘I don’t see why. When I get married I’m not going to be a slave to my husband.’

‘What’s this?’ Amy asked, smiling. ‘Has someone proposed to you?’

‘Don’t be daft. You know I haven’t got a boyfriend at the moment.’

‘You soon will have,’ Amy said assuredly as she looked at her friend. Carol was pretty, with long, auburn hair, hazel eyes and full lips that tended to pout if she didn’t get her own way. She was also fairly tall, with a willowy figure that Amy envied.

‘I must admit, I’ve got my eye on a bloke.’

‘Have you?’ Amy asked. ‘Do I know him?’

‘You’ve seen him,’ Carol said enigmatically.

Amy frowned. ‘Where?’

‘He’s working on refitting that shop opposite where we work.’

‘I haven’t noticed him,’ Amy said, ‘but it explains why you’ve been hovering at the window instead of serving customers.’

‘Yeah, well, he is a bit dishy.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘He’s cute. Not too tall, beefy, with a round face.’

‘He sounds like your usual type,’ Amy said, unable to share Carol’s taste in boys. It was funny really, Amy thought, considering that she was only four foot eleven she liked tall blokes, whereas Carol preferred them short and stocky.

‘Once the refit is finished he’ll be off. I need to catch his eye before then,’ Carol mused.

‘I doubt he could have missed you,’ Amy commented, aware how striking her friend was. ‘Unless of course you’ve been standing at the window so much that he thinks you’re part of the display.’

Carol chuckled; Amy giggled, and soon the two of them were in fits of laughter. ‘Shush,’ Carol finally gasped. ‘If we wake my parents up I’ll be in trouble.’

Amy managed to stop laughing. She liked Carol’s mum, Daphne Cole. Carol had inherited her mother’s good looks and colouring; however she could be hard on her daughter if she was in one of her moods. ‘Yes, you might get it in the neck from your mum, but you can’t do anything wrong in your dad’s eyes.’

‘Yours is the same, but your mum dotes on you too. I wish I was an only child.’

‘I’d prefer it if I wasn’t,’ Amy said. ‘It can be a bit stifling and you get far more freedom than me.’

‘Yeah, there is that I suppose,’ Carol conceded, ‘though I still have to be home by ten thirty. Talking of freedom, are you coming out tonight?’

With Tommy ill in bed it didn’t seem right to go out dancing and if he got to hear about it he might be upset. Amy desperately sought an excuse. Carol didn’t know that Mrs Frost had turned her away earlier, so she clutched at that. ‘Sorry, I can’t come out with you. I’m going to see Tommy.’

‘Boring …’ Carol drawled.

Amy hated fibbing to her friend, but she was really keen on Tommy, keener than anyone knew. She wasn’t too worried about Mrs Frost; after all, she’d be marrying Tommy, not his mother. Of course there had been no mention of marriage, but Amy had seen the way Tommy looked at her. He hadn’t said that he loved her yet, but she was sure he returned her feelings.

At least she hoped so.

Celia Frost was disappointed to see that Thomas had hardly touched his dinner. She felt his forehead, frowning. ‘You’ve hardly eaten a thing and if your fever hasn’t gone down by tomorrow, I think I’ll ask Dr Trent to call in again.’

‘There’s no need to make a fuss. I feel a little better today.’

‘You don’t look it,’ Celia told him.

‘Has Amy called in to see me?’

‘Yes, but you were asleep and I don’t think she’ll be back. Young girls are so flighty these days and while you’re ill in bed, no doubt Amy’s out and about enjoying herself,’ Celia said, pleased to see a frown cross her son’s features. She had planted a seed of doubt about Amy and she’d leave him to dwell on it. ‘Now rest, darling, and I’ll be up to see you again later.’

Celia carried the tray downstairs, and after washing the plate she went back into the sitting room where she took a seat by the fire, her eyes resting on her husband in the opposite chair. He was asleep, snoring softly and her lips twisted in distaste. She’d had high hopes for George when they married, expecting him to be as ambitious as she was, but instead, with his problem, he’d never attempted to expand the business. There was plenty of work for glaziers, and by now George should have been in the position to employ men to work for him. However, he’d been too proud to accept her offer to help, instead remaining a one-man band.

Of course Thomas worked with him, but that hardly counted. At least George made fairly good money and was generous with the housekeeping, Celia had to admit. Yet they could have had so much more, still could, if George would only listen to her suggestions instead of dismissing them.

With a sigh of discontent, Celia picked up her tapestry frame to continue working on a cushion; the scene a quaint thatched cottage and garden filled with hollyhocks, delphiniums and roses in profusion. She would love a pretty garden, a place in the country away from the smoke and pollution which would be so much better for Thomas.

There was a snort, a grunt and then George’s eyes opened. He yawned then said, ‘I could do with a cup of Rosie Lee.’

‘You sound so common. It’s a cup of tea, George,’ Celia chastised.

The tiredness left his eyes to be replaced by annoyance. ‘When are you going to get off your high horse, woman? You may sound as though you were born with a plum in your mouth, but I know you came from a slum.’

Celia felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She had been born in the East End of London, and when her father died, her mother had been left to bring up eight children on her own. Celia could remember the two small rooms they had been crammed into, the rats, and the bugs climbing the walls. Tuberculosis had been rife, and Celia saw three of her brothers and one sister die of the disease. She’d been terrified that she was going to catch it too, and with that fear came a fierce determination to escape the poverty and filth. Angrily she cried, ‘I may have been born in a slum, but at least I had the ambition to better myself, which is more than I can say for you!’

‘That’s it, bring me down again, but you seem to forget that you only worked in a dress shop when I met you.’

‘It wasn’t just any old shop! I had to improve my diction, posture and dress sense before I could gain a position in Knightsbridge. We catered for the wealthy and fashionable.’

‘Yeah, and you still try to emulate them,’ George said bitterly.

‘No doubt you’d prefer me to sound like a fishwife, but let me tell you I’m proud of my achievements.’

‘If that’s the case, how come nobody around here knows anything about it? Instead you’ve fabricated the story that you were born in Chelsea, of middle-class parents.’

‘I won’t have anyone looking down on me.’

‘No, you prefer to lord it up over them by pretending to be something that you’re not.’

‘You didn’t complain when we met,’ Celia told him, annoyed to find tears welling in her eyes. ‘In fact you said you loved my voice, my poise, and everything else about me. Lately though, all you do is criticise me and I have no idea why.’

George shook his head, sighed, then said, ‘Yeah, you’re right and I’m sorry. It’s just that I wish you’d lighten up; learn to live a little, to have a bit of fun.’

‘We went to the dance at the Conservative Club, and there’s another one in a couple of weeks.’

‘You can’t call that fun. It’s all so formal, dress suits and cocktail dresses. We’re only in our forties, but we’re becoming a couple of old fuddy-duddies, and when was the last time we made love?’

Celia stared at her husband, aghast. George didn’t seem to appreciate that lately she’d been worn out with looking after Thomas, sometimes so worried about him that she slept in a chair beside his bed. She didn’t bother to point this out; George would only say she was mollycoddling Thomas again, so she rose to her feet, only saying, ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

‘Yeah, do that, and then how about a bit of slap and tickle?’

‘George,’ she cried, appalled, ‘what on earth has come over you? It’s four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon.’

‘As prissy as ever,’ he said bitterly. ‘I knew you’d react like that, Celia. In fact the only fun I have with you nowadays is in winding you up. Forget the tea. I’m going out.’

With those words George abruptly rose to his feet, and as he walked out of the room Celia chased after him. ‘George, where are you going?’

‘For a walk,’ he snapped while pulling on his overcoat. Moments later he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Celia just stood there for moment, brows furrowed. George had changed lately, had become sharp in his criticism of her, but she felt that something else was going on, something underlying his odd behaviour. Was it to do with his business? Was George having financial problems and keeping it from her? No, that couldn’t be it, she decided, he was as busy as ever.

Whatever the underlying problem was, Celia was sure that it wasn’t anything to do with their marriage. After all, she was a good wife and mother. It was George who had changed, not her.