Better Days will Come. Pam Weaver
Bonnie admitted. She was beginning to feel a bit sick. Instead of coming clean she was getting in deeper and deeper.
‘How do you feel about going abroad?’ Lady Brayfield asked.
‘It would be a challenge,’ said Bonnie. The dog placed his head in her lap. She felt almost comforted by it and smiled faintly as she placed her hand on his head.
‘You are between jobs …?’ Lady Brayfield ventured.
‘Yes,’ said Bonnie. There was an awkward moment when Lady Brayfield again waited for her to elaborate but Bonnie’s only response was to pat the dog’s head. What an idiot she’d been. It was only the lure of riding in a taxi and going to a posh address that had got her here. She had to get herself out of this and quickly. Think, she told her panicking brain, think …
They were interrupted by a footfall and the door swung open. A young boy about ten years old, dark haired and in his school uniform consisting of grey short trousers, a grey blazer with the school emblem on the breast pocket, a white shirt with a yellow and black striped tie, long grey socks and black lace-up shoes came into the room. His hair looked wet, as if someone had made an attempt to tidy him up. Bonnie could see the marks of a comb running through it, although on the crown of his head three spikes of hair stood defiantly up on end. The door closed behind him.
‘Ah,’ said Lady Brayfield, ‘this is Richard, my grandson. Come and say how do you do, Richard.’
Obediently but sullenly, Richard said, ‘How do you do.’
‘Miss Rogers is going to take you to your father,’ said Lady Brayfield. Bonnie’s heart sank. Oh no, she’d got the job.
‘I don’t want to go,’ Richard protested loudly. He stamped his foot and the spaniel began to bark as he kicked the closed door several times.
Lady Brayfield tried to placate the boy. ‘Richard, darling, you mustn’t get hysterical.’
‘I don’t want to go and you can’t make me!’ he cried.
This was Bonnie’s chance to extricate herself. She rose to her feet slowly. ‘Lady Brayfield …’ she began.
The boy threw himself onto the older woman’s lap. ‘Don’t send me, Granny. I’ll be good. I promise.’
‘But your father wants you out there with him, darling,’ said Lady Brayfield helplessly. ‘What can I do?’
She patted the boy’s back and looked at Bonnie as if seeking advice.
Bonnie chewed her bottom lip. ‘I’m sure …’ she began, but at the same moment Richard stood up, turned and launched himself at her, causing her to stumble backwards onto the settee.
‘No, no,’ he shouted. ‘You can’t make me. I hate it there. I won’t go, I tell you.’
Lady Brayfield was horrified.
Bonnie could see at once that he was clearly very spoiled and out of control.
‘Richard,’ his grandmother demanded, ‘stop that at once!’
Bonnie struggled to her feet and righted her hat but as she bent to pick up her fallen handbag, the boy aimed a kick at the settee. The toe of his heavy lace-up shoe made contact with Bonnie. Her hands automatically went to her stomach as she cried out in excruciating pain.
Lady Brayfield gasped. ‘Oh Richard, what have you done?’
They both stared in horror as Bonnie screwed up her eyes and fell back onto the settee with a loud cry.
Three
Rita was having a history lesson. Normally the Georgian period fascinated her. Unlike her bored and sleepy classmates, she revelled in the romance of England at the time of Jane Austen, but she would have hated to live back then. It was mainly the treatment of women which horrified Rita. That far-off time was a world of arranged marriages when women had to be submissive, obedient and above all, quiet. Despite her mother’s best efforts, Rita wasn’t a bit domesticated. She would have failed miserably at weaving, sewing and cooking, and she didn’t know the meaning of quiet either!
‘For homework,’ said Miss Rastrick as she wrote on the blackboard, ‘read pages 37–54.’
Rita found the page. ‘A wife’s duty,’ she read in her textbook, The History of the Georgians, ‘was one of absolute obedience to her husband. It was considered extremely disloyal if she was tempted to be disparaging or critical of him.’
Rita shook her head. Thank goodness things were different now. The war had meant that when the men were called up, the women had to do their work. She was confident that now that the mould had been broken, it would be impossible to go back. Her future and the future of the girls in her class was a lot more promising than her mother’s had been and certainly more than her grandmother’s. Rita lived a world away from Regency England. She had no idea what she wanted to be when she left school next Easter, but she was determined to be mistress of her own destiny.
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,