There’s Always Tomorrow. Pam Weaver
‘Do you?’
Yes I do, thought Dottie. She was careful not to let Peaches see her secret smile. And one day she’d show them just what she could do. One day she’d surprise them all.
Mary leaned over and picked up the teapot again. ‘What are you doing next Saturday?’ she asked, pouring herself a second cup.
‘Having a rest!’ Dottie laughed. What were they up to? This sounded a bit like a kind-hearted conspiracy …
‘Tell you what,’ cried Peaches. ‘Jack is taking Gary and me to the Littlehampton Carnival in the lorry. It’s lovely there. Sandy beach for one thing. Nicer for the kids. Worthing and Brighton are all pebbles. Why don’t we all go and make a day of it? You and Reg and your Tom, Mary. There’s plenty of room. We can get all the kids in the back.’
‘That sounds wonderful!’ cried Mary. ‘My kids would love it. Are you sure?’
‘I don’t think Reg …’ Dottie began. She knew full well that Reg would prefer to spend a quiet day in the garden and then go down to the pub. She didn’t mind because it left her free to work out how to do her greatest sewing challenge so far: Mariah Fitzgerald’s curtains.
‘You leave Reg to me,’ said Peaches firmly. ‘You’re coming.’
‘Can I come too?’ Elsie wanted to know.
‘Course you can,’ said Peaches. ‘The more the merrier.’
‘I don’t think you can, Elsie,’ said Mary. ‘Your mum and dad are going to see your gran over in Small Dole next week. She told me as much when I asked if you could help out today.’
Elsie stuck her lip out and slid down her chair. ‘I hate it at Gran’s,’ she grumbled. ‘It’s boring.’
Peaches had gone back to Sylvie’s letter. “All the hard work …’?’ she quoted.
‘Eh?’ said Mary.
‘She says here, “I never stop thinking about you all and the fun we had on the farm and all that blinking hard work!” I seem to remember she spent more time on her back than she did digging.’
They all giggled.
‘My dad says Mum ought to do that,’ said Elsie innocently. She was sitting at the opposite end of the table, her face covered in strawberry jam and cake crumbs.
‘But you haven’t even got a garden,’ said Mary walking round behind her to top up the teapot.
‘Not digging, Auntie! Lying on her back.’
Peaches choked on her tea as Mary made frantic gestures over the top of Elsie’s head.
‘Dad said it would do her good to lie on her back every Sunday afternoon when we go to Sunday school,’ Elsie went on innocently. ‘But Mum says she hasn’t got the time.’
‘Lovely bit of sponge this, Dottie,’ said Mary, struggling to regain her composure. ‘Elsie’s really enjoying it, aren’t you, lovey?’
‘Auntie, why are you laughing?’
‘What are you going to do with your ten bob, Elsie?’ Dottie interrupted.
Elsie smiled. ‘When the summer comes, me mum’s taking me over to me other granny’s for a holerday,’ she said. ‘She says I can keep the money for then.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘She lives near Swanage,’ Elsie was in full swing now. ‘I can go swimming in the sea.’
‘While your mum’s lying on the beach?’ muttered Peaches, starting them all off again. Desperately trying to keep a straight face herself, Dottie nudged her in the side. Elsie looked totally confused.
The door burst open and a waitress dumped a pile of dirty plates on the draining board.
‘Time to get started,’ said Dottie standing to her feet and straightening her apron. ‘Get that cake and our cups off the table, will you, Elsie? We shall need all the space we can find now.’
The next hour was a frenzy of activity. The washing up seemed endless and they were hard pushed to find space for both the clean and dirty dishes.
At around four thirty, Elsie came running back. ‘They’re all coming out!’
The women gathered by the back door to watch.
Josephine Fitzgerald looked amazing and very happy. Her dress, made of organza and lace, was in the latest style. The V-shaped bodice was covered with lace from neck to the end of the three-quarter length sleeves while the skirt was in two layers. The white organza underskirt reached the ground while the lace overskirt came as far as the knee. The whole dress was covered in tiny pearls. Dottie had studied it very carefully. She knew it had cost an absolute fortune, but with a little ingenuity she knew she could make one for less than quarter of the price.
Malcolm Deery looked even more of a chinless wonder than ever in his wedding suit but, Dottie decided, they were well matched. Josephine would lack for nothing. After a couple or three years, there would be nannies and christenings. In years to come, she’d become just like her mother, going to endless bridge parties, and playing golf. She’d buy her clothes from smart shops in Brighton or maybe go up to London to the swanky shops on Oxford Street and, if Malcolm’s business did really well, Regent Street.
‘Ahh,’ sighed Peaches. ‘Don’t she look a picture?’
‘Must be coming in to get changed before they go off for the honeymoon,’ said Mary.
Dottie didn’t want to think about the conversation she’d had the night before. Had she betrayed that girl? She hoped not, but only time would tell.
‘Second wave of washing up will be on its way in a minute,’ she said to her companions. ‘Better get back to work, girls.’
As if on cue, two waitresses hurried out of the marquee, each with a tray of glasses, followed by a waiter with a stack of dirty plates.
Mary grabbed a small sausage from the top of the pile of dishes and shoved it into her mouth as she pushed more dirty plates under the soapy water.
‘Ma-ry!’ cried Peaches in mock horror.
‘I need to keep my strength up,’ said Mary, her cheeks bulging.
‘Dottie, would you come and help Miss Josephine?’ Mrs Fitzgerald’s sudden appearance made them all jump. Mary choked on the sausage and Peaches put down her tea towel to pat her on the back.
‘Yes, Madam,’ said Dottie, doing her best to steer her employer away from her friend before she got into trouble. Mariah Fitzgerald could be very tight-fisted. Dottie could never understand meanness. Why put food in the pig bin rather than allow a hard-working woman like Mary to have a little something extra? But she knew her employer was perfectly capable, at the end of the day, of refusing to pay Mary if she caught her eating.
Thinking about pig bins, she was reminded of the pig in her hen run. How was it getting on? She’d have to ask if she could take some leftovers for him … or was it a her? How do you tell the difference, she wondered.
As she followed Mrs Fitzgerald upstairs, Dottie decided – nothing ventured, nothing gained. ‘Excuse me, Madam. About the leftovers.’
‘Put them in the pantry under a cover,’ said Mariah without turning around.
‘And the plate scrapings?’
Mrs Fitzgerald stopped dead and Dottie almost walked into her. ‘The plate scrapings?’ She sounded horrified.
‘Only my Reg has a pig,’ Dottie ploughed on, ‘and I was wondering if I could take the scrapings home to feed it.’
Mrs Fitzgerald was staring at her.
‘He hopes to fatten it up for Christmas.’ Dottie swallowed hard. ‘He