Unforgettable (15 page)

‘She's not up yet, but I'm going to the park,' Gracie said, before she had time to think.

She hadn't actually decided on anything, but it seemed as good a place as any to take advantage of this lovely September day.

‘You all look as if you could do with some fresh air too,' she added cheekily, addressing the lodgers.

‘What, come with you and cramp your style?' one of them said with a cough and a spit into a grubby handkerchief. ‘You won't want old codgers like us hanging around a lovely girl like you with all them young bucks around.'

‘I'm not looking for a husband, Mr Daley,' she said, trying to ignore his unsavoury
implications. And she hadn't actually invited their company.

‘If I was forty years younger I'd snap you up myself,' he answered.

‘You'd have to play the saxophone first,' said a voice behind them, and they turned to see Dolly, not exactly at her best, but clearly thinking she should make an effort since her friend was only here for a short time.

‘What's all this about a saxophone?' said Mrs Warburton, clearing a space on the table for the toast rack.

‘It's nothing,' Gracie said, suddenly annoyed. ‘I knew somebody who played in a band once—well, not exactly
knew
him—I only met him once, and I'm not likely to see him again.'

‘She just lives in hopes,' Dolly added with a sly grin.

Mrs Warburton gave an impatient sigh. ‘That's as may be, but do you want breakfast or not, missy, because I've got church to go to and I'm not going to be cooking all day for the likes of you.'

‘I don't want nothing.' Dolly was scowling now. ‘I just came to tell Gracie that I'll go for a walk too.'

* * *

‘Are you all right, Dolly? You look a bit seedy,' Gracie said a while later, when they had left the boarding-house behind and were striding out towards the park, their arms linked.

‘I had too much to drink last night, and I'm not sure what Jim was putting in my glass,' Dolly said with a grimace. ‘Dancing the Charleston didn't help the way my guts were turning upside down after all those rides on the caterpillar either. I'll be all right, but the smell of old Warby's greasy cooking was the last straw.'

She sounded really down, Gracie thought, and she needed to hear something to cheer her up.

‘I think I might come back to London quite soon, Dolly, but I shan't come back to Mrs Warburton's.'

Dolly stopped walking so suddenly that she nearly pulled Gracie over.

‘Why ever not? Where will you go, then?'

Gracie laughed at her indignant expression.

‘You've practically answered that for yourself, haven't you? All that greasy cooking, and living in the company of those old blokes, nice as they are—well, it's not my idea of living—nor yours, I'd have thought.'

‘Are you going to ask old Lawson for your job back? I know he'd have you like a shot.'

‘I daresay he would, but I'm not going back there, either.'

They were through the gates of the park now, and the grass was sweet and green, the late summer flowers in full bloom, filling the air with their heady scent. People were milling about, dressed in their Sunday best, and from the smiles on their faces it seemed as if the sun was bringing out the best in everybody.

‘So what
are
you going to do then?'

Gracie gave a small sigh. Her first instinct not to say anything until her plans were definite had obviously been for the best. It was only because she thought Dolly needed cheering up that she had abandoned this on the spur of the moment, and now she was stuck with it. She spoke quickly.

‘I might look for a room to rent somewhere and set up on my own, doing alterations or making new garments to order. It worked all right in Southampton, and there's more money to be made here—'

She couldn't get any further before Dolly was squealing at her.

‘That's a cracking idea. Why don't we do it together?'

Gracie was taken aback. It wasn't what she'd been planning, even though the plans were still so vague, and she hadn't really got
any further than moving back to London and doing what she was good at.

‘What? A kind of partnership, you mean?' she said with an uncertain laugh. ‘You and me, throw-outs from Lawson's Shirt Factory?'

‘We ain't throw-outs,' Dolly said. ‘You left because you had to look after your mum, and I can leave any time I like. What do you say?'

‘I say I think you're crazy,' Gracie said flatly. ‘We know nothing about business, and what I'm thinking about is just to take on a little sideline work to keep body and soul together, not competing with fashion houses.'

‘Why not? Why ever bleedin' not?'

‘Be realistic, for God's sake. I've got to do this on my own, Dolly, and that's the end of it. I'll be starting from scratch, and later, if there was enough work coming in, maybe we could think about it, but for now, I
need
to be on my own and to do things my way. Too much has been going on in the last couple of months for me to rush into anything like you're suggesting.'

‘You don't want me any more, then?'

‘Oh, don't be daft. Of course I want you. You're like a sister to me, as well as my best friend,' Gracie said, hugging Dolly's arm, ‘but I need to do this by myself, to prove something, I suppose, and don't ask me what
it is, because I don't know.'

Dolly laughed.

‘I always said you was a crackpot, Gracie Brown.'

But the prickly moments had passed, and Gracie breathed a sigh of relief. It was funny, though. Spelling it out in words had clarified her mind in a way she hadn't expected. She
did
need time alone. Her parents' deaths couldn't be forgotten in a week or a month, and she needed to rebuild her life in her own way. Perhaps it was only when both parents were gone that you really felt as though you were an adult. There were no other relatives above you, and no one to help you stand on your own two feet but yourself.

She shivered, brushing aside such deep thoughts as the sound of music came towards them over the soft air. Today wasn't a day for philosophising. Ahead of them they could see rows of deckchairs and beyond them a bandstand. Musicians were playing bright tunes suitable for a Sunday morning in the park, and despite herself, Gracie's heartbeats quickened.

‘It won't be him, Gracie,' Dolly said.

‘I know, but we can still go and listen, can't we?'

‘You ain't never forgotten him, have you?'

Gracie was tempted to say that of course she had, but Dolly knew her too well.

‘No, but I'm not wasting my life thinking of something that's never going to happen. In the end I'll probably settle for Davey Watkins and be a sailor's wife.'

She didn't know why she said it. She certainly didn't mean it. She just wanted to stop Dolly looking at her with that pitying look in her eyes that said she was being a damn fool to hanker over a saxophone player, because there were plenty of other blokes in the world.

‘Yo ho ho then!' Dolly said. ‘I thought you were holding out on me. Has he asked you yet?'

‘To marry him, you mean?'

‘Well, what else would I mean?' Dolly said mockingly. ‘You ain't—you
know
—done the business with him. Have you, Gracie?'

‘Of course not! I wouldn't be that stupid. Now shut up about it and let's go and listen to the band.'

And of course it wasn't Charlie's band. She'd never imagined that it would be. The saxophone player was sixty years old if he was a day, and he wasn't nearly as good as Charlie, but that was probably just her opinion. All the same, if she closed her eyes, it wasn't difficult to imagine it was his music
she could hear in her head.

‘I still reckon you've got it bad, but I hope your sailor-boy's worth it,' Dolly whispered as a parting shot, watching her, and was immediately shushed by other people trying to listen to the music.

The band played a selection of rousing patriotic songs;
Land of hope and glory
and
Jerusalem
, then a good smattering of popular songs, though nothing that would outrage older listeners on a Sunday morning, and, to end with, some traditional sea shanties. Dolly nudged Gracie as the concert ended.

‘I reckon they played them sea shanties just for you, gel, to remind you of your Davey. What's he like, anyway? Tall, dark and handsome?'

‘Oh yes. Valentino to the life,' Gracie said, heavy with sarcasm. ‘As a matter of fact he's quite good-looking, but when you've known somebody practically all your life, you hardly notice it, do you?'

‘So when are you seeing him again?'

‘I don't know! When he's home on leave, I suppose, that is, if I'm still around. If I've moved back here, I won't be seeing him at all, will I?'

‘Never mind,' Dolly said giving her arm a squeeze. ‘You're a lovely writer, Gracie, and I bet he likes getting letters from you.'

‘I daresay. So can we shut up about him now?'

And despite what Dolly might think, she had no romantic feelings towards Davey Watkins and never would have.

* * *

She left London early on Monday morning, having decided that she didn't need to look around for a place to rent just yet. There would be time enough for that when she had sorted out everything at home.

Her parents' life insurances had been paid out promptly and thanks to her mum's foresight in paying into the funeral club each of them had been given a decent send-off. But there were still papers and letters to sort out in what Queenie always called her business drawer.

Mick had always scoffed at it, saying she was getting above herself making such a fuss about keeping every bloody receipt as if they were gold dust—but Queenie had confided to Gracie long ago that if she didn't keep money for the gas and coal bills and suchlike away from his prying eyes, he'd booze the lot away. And keeping receipts had always been a matter of pride to her, to prove that the Brown family could pay their way.

After the deaths, although Gracie had dealt with the necessary insurance policies, she hadn't had the heart to empty the drawer properly, but she knew it had to be done. She couldn't break the final ties with home until she did so. She also realized that there could be unpaid bills. Because of the pain and the drugs her mother had been forced to take during her last weeks, Queenie had been vague about so many things. The only thing she had insisted on with what little animation she could summon up, was that her daughter shouldn't stay in Southampton.

Once Gracie had returned to the house she opened all the windows to rid it of the stale smell of being unoccupied, even for so short a while. Not that the varying smells that wafted from the dockside were any too savoury, either, and it was soon preferable to close the windows again. But not before more than one person had noted that the Brown girl was back.

Much later, having unpacked and made herself a sandwich and a pot of tea, she opened the business drawer purposefully. There were no surprises, just the rent book and the large envelope that said simply ‘Bills and Receipts.'

Gracie tipped them out on to the parlour table, startled to discover that they went years
back. Uneasily beginning to agree with her dad she saw that this had become something of an obsession, though some of them made interesting reading. Halfway down the pile she found another envelope. The sight of nothing more than her own name on it made her heart jolt and then start to beat painfully fast.

Queenie hadn't been an educated woman, and if this was going to be what was called a letter from the grave Gracie wasn't sure she could bear to read it. But how could she not? It had been meant for her, and written some time ago, she guessed. So perhaps Queenie hadn't written it in her last months when she knew she was dying, but a long time ago.

The thought made it easier for Gracie to slit open the envelope, and then stare in complete disbelief at the contents.

‘Cooee, is anybody home?'

Without waiting for an answer Mrs Jennings came bustling into the house after a peremptory knock on the door, as she had always done while poor Queenie was alive. She'd seen no reason not to do it now.

With one swift movement, Gracie covered the contents of her mother's letter with the larger envelope and managed to stuff the whole lot back into the drawer before she
turned with as natural a smile as she could manage.

‘My goodness, you gave me a fright, Mrs Jennings!'

‘I'm sure I never meant to do any such thing, duck. I was just wanting to make sure you was all right after your jaunt to London, and to bring you a dish of mutton stew and dumplings for your dinner.'

‘It's very kind of you—'

‘Think nothing of it. You could do with a bit of filling out, and you young girls don't do much cooking for yourselves, do you? So did you have a good time with your friend, and ain't you glad to be back from all the noise and the smoke?'

She paused for breath, but at least her rambling had given Gracie a chance to catch her own breath while still mulling over her discovery. Never in a million years had she expected her mother to have done something like this without Mick's knowledge. And one thing Gracie
was
sure of. It was definitely without her father's knowledge.

‘It was very nice to see my friend again, Mrs Jennings,' she murmured in answer. ‘And good of you to bring me in the stew. I'll enjoy it later, I'm sure.'

She hoped the neighbour would take the hint that she wanted to be alone, but she
might have known it was too much to ask. Eyeing the brown earthenware teapot on the table, she asked Gracie if there was another cuppa in the pot.

‘I'm sure there is,' she said with a sigh, telling herself not to be ungracious in wanting the woman out of here as quickly as possible. But it was another half-hour before Mrs Jennings was replete with two cups of tea, brushing down her apron for biscuit crumbs, and leaving her alone.