Better Days will Come. Pam Weaver

       Seven

      Rita lay on her back with the water touching her shoulders. The tin bath was cramped and the edges a bit cold but it was warm in the kitchen. The fire in the range let out a fairly good heat and her clean clothes were hanging on the clothes horse for when she got out.

      She was brooding. Brooding on her sister’s disappearance and the unfairness of life. The more she thought about it the less she understood it. Bonnie often talked about George and Rita knew their romance was to be kept a secret but all that stuff about South Africa? Why did that have to be a secret anyway? She should tell Mum really. In fact, now that she thought about it, Rita wished she had told her mother about George in the first place. If she told her now, she would be angry that Rita had kept Bonnie’s secret. She soaped the flannel with Lux and then her arm. Mum was reasonable enough. She would have been a bit upset but if Bonnie was a married woman she would never have stopped her going anywhere with her husband.

      Mum would never allow any hanky-panky, as Mrs Kerr had called it, but Bonnie was a respectable girl. As they’d lain in their beds at night, she and her sister had talked about their wedding night often enough. Bonnie always said you should save yourself for the man you loved. She said Mum had done it and she would too.

      ‘Anyway,’ she told Rita, ‘if you give yourself to a boy, he won’t respect you and you’ll get a reputation for being flighty.’

      ‘I shall save myself for my husband too,’ Rita had said stoutly.

      She had read a letter on the problems page in Woman magazine just the other day. A reader was worried that her fiancé wanted her to go too far. Should she give in to him or wait until her wedding day? In the reply the girl had been advised to remain a virgin. In truth Rita had no real idea what happened on the wedding night but she knew that when a man and a woman got married sooner or later there was a baby. What exactly a man did was a mystery. At school, they had biology lessons but the life cycle of a frog wasn’t much help.

      Life threw some very unkind things at you. It had come as a shock when her periods started. When Mum explained that this sort of thing was nothing to worry about, and that it happened to every girl, she had talked a lot about the Goodmans’ dog.

      ‘Poppet goes into season twice a year,’ Mum said. ‘Well, it’s the same for girls. When girls have their period, it’s a bit like going into season.’

      ‘But why?’ Rita wondered.

      ‘Your body is getting ready to have a baby.’

      Rita had been appalled. ‘But I’m only thirteen,’ she’d cried. ‘I’m not ready to have a baby yet!’

      ‘Of course not, silly,’ her mother had laughed. ‘You have to get married first.’

      Rita was in for another shock a month later. Poppet went into season twice a year but it seemed that girls had their period, now re-named ‘country cousins’, every month. Not only that, but Mum bought her a regular supply of Velena pads with loops which she had to fix onto a special belt. Twice a day, she had to wrap the used ones in newspaper and Mum burned them in the range. It was horrible. She was very nearly sixteen with three years of preparing her body for a baby behind her and she still didn’t know exactly how you got one. Rita swirled the flannel over her flat stomach. Dinah said she had a nice figure but Rita wished her breasts were a bit bigger.

      Someone tried the door latch and Rita sat up.

      ‘Who’s there?’

      Her heart was bumping. Thank goodness Mum had told her to lock the door. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was much too early for Mum to come back – she’d only been gone for a half an hour – and besides she had her key.

      The door latch went up again. Rita stood up and grabbed a towel. ‘Who is it?’ she called, willing her voice not to quiver.

      ‘It’s me, Rita. Uncle Charlie. Open the door. Your mum’s been hurt.’

      Rita felt the panic rising in her chest. She wanted to run and open the door but how could she, covered with only a threadbare towel which barely went round her? ‘Just a minute.’

      With no time to dry herself let alone get dressed she flew upstairs and pulled Mum’s old dressing gown from behind the bedroom door.

      When she opened the door, Rita had a shock. Uncle Charlie was doing his best to hold her mother upright but Grace was like a rag doll in his arms. Together they helped her inside and onto a chair.

      ‘What happened?’

      ‘We was robbed,’ said Uncle Charlie. ‘Some blighter distracted me and his mate snatched the bag.’

      Grace moaned and Rita could see a big lump on her forehead. The skin was already going blue and her mother was trembling from head to toe.

      ‘It’s the shock,’ said Uncle Charlie.

      ‘Shall I get the doctor?’ Rita asked anxiously.

      ‘No,’ said Grace. ‘Yes,’ said Uncle Charlie in unison.

      ‘We can’t afford it,’ said Grace.

      Uncle Charlie dampened the end of the tea towel and then he put it over the bruise. Rita was happy to let him do it. He was a second at boxing matches and he knew what to do with a bump. Over the top of her mother’s head, he gave Rita the nod to go.

      ‘Will you stay with her?’ Rita mouthed.

      Uncle Charlie nodded. ‘Have you got any butter?’

      Rita got the butter dish from inside the dropdown cupboard then, grabbing her clean clothes from the clothes horse in front of the range, she raced back upstairs to dress. A couple of minutes later she was back downstairs. Uncle Charlie was rubbing butter onto the huge egg which had formed on her mother’s forehead. Rita grabbed her coat and ran.

      When she got back with the doctor, Grace had been sick and Rita was told to fetch Constable Higgins. She ran down to Station Approach and the blue police box. There was a telephone on the side for the use of members of the public. It connected her straight to the police station in the centre of town. Rita explained that her mother had been attacked and robbed and after giving the sergeant her name and address, she was told to go back home and wait for a uniformed officer to attend.

      When she got back home, the doctor had just completed a thorough examination of her mother. As soon as she saw her, Grace was angry that Rita had sent for him, but the doctor shook his head. ‘You should be proud of her, Mrs Rogers,’ he said. ‘Head injuries can be very dangerous things. Fortunately, although you will probably have a very bad headache for a while, there is no lasting damage.’

      Rita was so relieved she almost kissed him. Inside, she had been panicking. With her father dead and Bonnie gone, what would have happened to her if Mum had been seriously ill? For the first time in her life she’d realised just how fragile life was, how everything could change in an instant. She knew she was being selfish, but she resolved never to take her mother for granted again. Bonnie might have walked out on her but, from now on, Rita was going to be the best daughter in the world.

      After telling Grace that an Aspro and bed rest was the best thing, the doctor left with his shilling and soon after a Constable Higgins stopped by and took statements.

      ‘Who knew you were going on the round?’ the constable asked. They were all sitting around the kitchen table.

      ‘Everybody,’ said Grace. ‘They were expecting me.’

      ‘And