Better Days will Come

Her thoughts drifted to her sister Bonnie. She still couldn’t believe she had gone. Mum didn’t want to talk about it but she cried all the time. She tried to pretend everything was all right but every time she stood outside in the scullery, or went outside the back door to get coal or check on the washing, Rita knew she was hiding so that no one saw her tears. It had been almost two weeks and there was still no sign of Bonnie. Mum had been out all day last Saturday, but she wouldn’t say where. There were no letters from Bonnie either.

‘Rita Rogers, stop daydreaming and get on with your work.’ Miss Rastrick’s sharp reprimand brought her back to the present day and Rita went back to the text.

The sort of women Rita admired were women like Hannah Penn, wife of William Penn. After the death of her husband, Hannah inherited control over the Pennsylvania colonies he founded. According to her book, Hannah held power and governed them wisely for fourteen years, even though her own son made strenuous efforts to have his father’s will nullified. There was no holding Hannah back and when my time comes, there’ll be no holding me back, Rita thought to herself.

When the bell rang to signify the end of lessons, Rita’s excitement mounted. Over the weekend, she had formed a plan. She would follow it through the moment the school day ended. Miss Rastrick tidied the books on her desk and rose to her feet. There was a low rumble as twenty gymslip-clad girls rose to their feet as well.

Tucking her books under her arm, Miss Rastrick said formally, ‘Good afternoon girls.’

‘Good after-noon, Miss Rastrick,’ they chanted in unison. As soon as she’d gone, the class erupted into a wall of sound. Rita’s hands trembled as she packed up her desk.

‘I forgot to tell you,’ said Mo Dawson. ‘We had a letter from my brother Bob. He’s in Germany now. He asked to be remembered to you.’

‘Did he.’ Rita wasn’t that bothered. Bob, Mo’s older brother, was doing his National Service. The last time she’d seen him was at the school concert last year. He had spots.

‘Are you coming to athletics practice with us?’ Mo smiled.

Mo lived next door but one from Rita. They didn’t have much in common but they often walked together to and from school. Mo’s dad was a bit funny in the head sometimes but Mo was all right.

Rita shoved the last of her books inside and shut the lid. ‘Can’t,’ she said mysteriously. ‘I’ve got something on.’

From her school in South Farm Road, Rita took a detour down Pavilion Road. She didn’t know exactly where Bonnie’s boyfriend lived, but it was down this road somewhere. She had followed them once, but only at a distance for fear that Bonnie would see her. Rita hoped that once she saw the gate, she would remember the house.

Although they were becoming increasingly independent of each other, she and her sister had always been very close. When the news that their father had died came, their mother had retreated into a world of her own, spending hours sitting alone on the stairs, so she and Bonnie comforted each other. The sisters enjoyed the same things – walking on the Downs, experimenting with what little make-up they could lay their hands on and going to the pictures.

Bonnie was what people called a striking woman whereas Rita was regarded as the pretty one. She had long artistic fingers like her mother and dimples on her cheeks like her father. Her dark hair had a hint of bronze in it and it shone. For school she pinned it away from her face but out of school she wore it like the film star Joan Greenwood.

Although she didn’t have a boyfriend herself, Rita understood the unwritten rule between women that you shouldn’t interfere where a man was concerned. She’d kept her distance when George entered Bonnie’s life. She said nothing to her mother because she knew Bonnie was keeping this one under wraps. For some reason, Bonnie didn’t want Mum to know about him.

‘He’s a lot older than me,’ she’d confided in Rita one Sunday afternoon. ‘Mum will stop us seeing each other if I tell her.’

‘What’s he like?’ Rita wanted to know.

Her sister’s expression became dreamy. ‘He’s the most wonderful man on earth,’ she’d sighed. ‘He looks like Charles Boyer.’ Bonnie’s soppy expression changed as she saw her sister’s face and she added defensively, ‘Well, just a bit …’

‘On a dark night, with his hat down and his coat collar up?’ Rita quipped.

Bonnie pushed her arm playfully. ‘No, really.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘George.’

‘George who?’

‘You ask too many questions,’ Bonnie had frowned. ‘We’ve both got a half day on Wednesday afternoon and we want to go to Brighton. Will you cover for me or not?’

‘I suppose,’ Rita pouted, ‘but what if Mum finds out?’

‘The only way she’ll find out is if you tell her,’ Bonnie insisted. ‘Tell Mum because it’s half term, you and I are going to see if they’ve made a start on clearing the barbed wire from the beach at Goring.’

Out of loyalty and love, Rita had lied to her mother with impunity, covering for what Bonnie and George were doing more than once.

She’d reached the bend in Pavilion Road but nothing seemed familiar. George’s digs must be around here somewhere. She looked over the hedge of number 131.

‘Lost something, love?’

Rita nearly jumped out of her skin as a woman carrying two heavy shopping bags came up behind her. ‘I’m looking for a friend’s house.’

The woman put one of her bags down and flexed her whitened fingers.

‘Can I help you with that?’ Rita smiled.

‘Thank you, dear,’ said the woman. ‘I live at number 187. What’s your friend’s name?’

‘George,’ said Rita, taking the bag. ‘I don’t know his last name.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘He’s good looking,’ said Rita. ‘A bit like Charles Boyer.’

The woman chuckled. ‘I think I’d remember if I’d seen him. Has he lived here long?’

Rita shrugged. ‘He’s got digs on the first floor,’ she said, remembering something Bonnie once said.

‘If he’s in digs, he’ll be with Mrs Kerr. She’s the only one around here who takes in lodgers. Number 109.’ They’d reached the woman’s gate and Rita handed her bag back. ‘Thank you, dear. Number 109. I hope you find your friend.’

Rita’s heart was in her mouth as she walked back and knocked at the door of number 109. The small front garden was very clean and tidy, the path swept, and the name on the wall beside the door said Maranatha. Mrs Kerr was a small woman with round black-rimmed glasses. Her hair was completely covered in a dark brown hairnet and she wore a wraparound floral apron.

‘Mrs Kerr? I’ve come about George,’ said Rita, completely forgetting her carefully rehearsed speech.

‘About time too,’ said Mrs Kerr. She showed her into a small sitting room next to the front door. ‘I must say I’m a bit surprised that he’s sent a schoolgirl. Why didn’t he come back for them himself?’

Rita stared at her with a blank expression. ‘Sorry?’

‘His things,’ Mrs Kerr said. ‘That is what you’re here about, isn’t it? He packed his case and left it in the hall that morning. “I’ll be back for it later”, he said. You tell him I waited up until half past ten but he never showed up. I’ll get it for you now.’

She went back out to the hall and opened the cupboard under the stairs.

‘Did George say where he was going?’ asked Rita.

‘I thought you knew where he was,’ said Mrs Kerr, coming back with a suitcase in her hand and a raincoat over her arm. ‘I don’t know where he is. He never told me. All I know is he paid his rent, gave me back the rent book and that was that. What are you going to do with his things if you don’t know where he is?’

Rita chewed her bottom lip and stared at the floor with a frown.

Mrs Kerr looked at her suspiciously. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘There’s no hanky panky going on between you and him is there?’

‘I’ve never met George,’ Rita confessed. ‘He used to go out with my sister.’