The Last Perfect Summer of Richard Dawlish Page 6

  Her parents took charge, to Dottie’s relief. The weight of responsibility fell from her shoulders. She felt lighter, more hopeful. She began to feel that things might turn out all right. George went down to the hotel lobby to use the telephone to call Flora, whilst her parents and the nurse settled themselves in their own rooms, the nurse carrying the infant off with her. After telephoning, George returned, bringing a portable baby’s cot from the back of his car, and went directly to the nurse’s room.

  Dottie sat on her bed and looked around at the room, empty now except for her own things. She was so reassured that George and Flora had agreed to bring up Diana’s baby as their own. All her anxiety and despair was at an end; now they could all grieve for Diana, knowing her little one was in safe hands. Dottie thanked God that the baby wouldn’t grow up in some orphanage; the relief about that was almost overwhelming. She lay back on the bed and waited for her family to come and find her once they were settled. She fell into a light, dreamless doze.

  When she awoke it was fast approaching dinner-time. Her mother was sitting in a chair near the bed.

  ‘I thought it best to let you sleep, dear.’ Looking down, Dottie saw that the coverlet had been pulled up over her. She got up and began to hurriedly wash her face and hands, then changed her blouse and skirt for a dress. Her mother relayed small bits of information to her as she did so, then as they were about to leave to go down and meet the gentlemen, she suddenly hugged Dottie tight and said, in a breaking voice, ‘Darling girl, I’m so proud of you.’

  Dottie fought back tears yet again. ‘You don’t blame me for getting involved with Diana? I know her situation was...’

  ‘Not at all. It took great courage, Dorothy dear, and great compassion. I’m very proud of you. We both are.’

  ‘Did you know?’ She looked into her mother’s eyes, thinking back to the day before her birthday at the end of March, when they had drunk cocktails at George and Flora’s home with George’s parents, and first heard that Diana had gone to the coast to recover from ‘bronchitis’.

  Mrs Manderson shook her head, but said, ‘Well, I didn’t know, but I admit I wondered. One hears rumours, and of course, it’s a rather well-worn cliché, sending a young woman off to the coast for a few months to recover from some supposed illness. I wonder the Gascoignes’ thought anyone would believe it for a moment. Though it never occurred to me that she would be so completely alone and friendless.’

  ‘I never gave it a thought, I just accepted it completely,’ Dottie said.

  ‘Hmm,’ said her mother, then, ‘Of course I never dreamt the poor child wasn’t being properly cared for.’ She shook her head, her mouth a firm straight line of disapproval. ‘It really is a terrible thing, to allow something like this to happen to a young girl in our day and age. How Pierce and Cynthia could do such a thing to their own child... I shall never visit them again. No friendship could survive such behaviour, not even with all the years we’ve known them.’

  ‘Diana wanted to punish herself. Perhaps she could have had help if she’d wanted it? But I think she wanted to die, she thought she deserved it for her wickedness,’ Dottie said. ‘Was she a member of the Daughters of Esther? From something she once said, I rather gathered that she was.’

  ‘She had been, but she left before I got involved, in the aftermath of the murder of that man you found in the street. Is it important? Do you want me to find out?’

  Dottie shook her head. ‘The dead man was Diana’s lover, Archie Dunne. No, don’t trouble yourself to find out anything, I don’t think it’s important. It was just an impression I got from a few things she’d said. But it’s too late now, it doesn’t matter. Poor Diana is gone.’

  Dottie’s hand was on the door handle when her mother said, softly, ‘Darling, I’m so sorry about William.’

  Dottie sighed. Without turning, she opened the door, and stepping through, she said, ‘Oh! Don’t, Mother, please. I can’t...’ She felt her mother’s hand just gently pat her shoulder.

  ‘I know, my dear, I know.’

  As dinner came to an end, their sparse conversation became fixed on recent events. Just before dinner, George and Mr Manderson had been to see Diana’s body, now reposing at a funeral parlour whilst arrangements were made. George was pale but resolute as he told Dottie about a second telephone call he had made to his father.

  ‘I told him in no uncertain terms exactly what I thought of him. And I told him he would have my sister properly laid to rest in the graveyard on our family estate, or he would never see Flora and myself, or any of our children ever again.’

  George paused as the waiter approached. The waiter set coffee before them. When he left, George continued, ‘Actually my parents are very upset, as well they might be, I told Father I blame him for Diana’s death. It was he who insisted she was sent away. He told me my mother has left him, she had been against it from the start.’ George closed his eyes momentarily, then added, ‘She’s gone to her sister’s in Lincoln. He doesn’t seem to think she will come back. I only hope it’s a temporary separation, and that after a period of grieving, she will return home. However, we shall see.’

  Dottie couldn’t think of anything helpful to say. She patted his arm.

  ‘Brandy?’ asked her father. George shook his head.

  ‘I’d better not. Wouldn’t do to get plastered, and the way I feel right now, I doubt I could stop at just one. Anyway, so that’s it. I’ve arranged for Diana’s body to be driven home tomorrow, and there will be a small family funeral in a few days at Ville Coign. Cause of death will be given out as pneumonia—everyone seems to know that’s why she went away, so... Small mercies, I suppose. I’m going home to Flora tomorrow, with Hudson and the little one, and then a day or two after that, I’ll join my parents.’

  ‘We’ll be going home tomorrow too,’ Mr Manderson said. There was nothing left to say; they were all too tired and too upset. They abandoned their half-drunk coffee and went up to their rooms.

  At the top of the stairs, as George made to go to his own room, he suddenly hugged Dottie, and speaking through a fresh outbreak tears, he said, ‘I can’t thank you enough, Dottie, dear. I’m really so, so very grateful that you... If you hadn’t been so determined to see her, to make sure Diana was all right...’ He couldn’t continue.

  She kissed his cheek. ‘I couldn’t help her, it was too late. You don’t have to say anything...’

  He turned and went away to his room. Dottie went to hers, and once undressed, she sat by the window looking out at the dark street and the sea beyond.

  The next morning, very early, they waved off George, the nurse and the baby, who departed in George’s car, then Dottie said goodbye to her parents at the railway station. Her mother had tried to persuade her to return home with them, but Dottie hadn’t wanted to leave quite yet. Perhaps she ought to have, she thought for the dozenth time, as she strolled along the street to her hotel. There was, after all, so much waiting for her back in London. But she hadn’t been able to face it. Her parents—and Flora and George—would be watching her like hawks to see if she was all right, and... oh, she just couldn’t go back yet. She needed another day or two. She was completely drained, physically and mentally, and she just wanted to be quiet and to sit looking at the sea, and try to make sense of everything that had happened since she left Scotland, only four days earlier.

  George and her mother had both promised to telephone her in the evening to let her know they were home safely, and she said she wanted to hear about the baby, and to speak to Flora. But it was now only half past nine in the morning, and the whole day stretched ahead of her. She felt a little adrift. The last few days had been overwhelming and suddenly it was all at an end; everything seemed empty and a bit pointless.

  She returned to the hotel and went to her room to lie down for a while. She had no inclination to do anything else. She quickly fell asleep. For once, her sleep was dreamless, or nearly so, her mind refrained from taunting her with horror and grief. When she awo
ke, she was rested. And hungry. It was almost dinner-time so that was not entirely surprising. She tidied herself and went downstairs.

  After dinner, she wandered along the hallway to what was the ‘guests’ lounge’ according to a polished wooden plaque. In marked contrast to the room at her previous hotel in York, this one was a bright space filled with rattan furniture and large potted palms, rather as she supposed the deck of a cruise liner would be got up, or perhaps some conservatory in a hotel on the French riviera. Dottie went to sit at a little table near the large picture window that gave onto the street that ran along the promenade. She couldn’t see the sea from here, but nevertheless it was a charming view. A lady sat alone at a table a little further along, Dottie thought she recognised her though couldn’t immediately place her. A waiter approached, and Dottie ordered a pot of tea, not quite ready to be seen alone in public drinking alcohol as modern young women were wont to do in London.

  The tall man she had seen in the hotel’s lobby two days earlier came into the room, lean, broad-shouldered and fair-haired. He went to sit at a table with the attractive and elegantly dressed woman Dottie had just noticed. Yes, Dottie remembered the woman had said something about him being a policeman. Dottie tore her eyes away from him, and looked down at the hem of her sleeve. Would it be like this? Every man that was vaguely tall or nicely built, or fair-haired, would she always feel that little lurch inside and the hope that it was William? Her composure of an hour earlier had gone and she felt all the weight of her sorrow again. The waiter was returning with her pot of tea, and Dottie made a great show of stretching and yawning, surreptitiously dashing away a tear. She managed to force a smile and thanked the waiter. He bowed and walked away, and she leaned back against the chair.

  Almost immediately she was called to the telephone. George reported himself home safely, said Flora was delighted with the baby, but he said little more, pleading weariness and the need for an early night. Not wanting to wait too long for her parents to phone her, Dottie requested a call to be put through to them, spoke very briefly with her father who assured her all was well, and that he would telephone the following evening to see how she was. Happy enough with that, Dottie returned to the Guests’ Lounge.

  A few other people had arrived: two men on their own, an older couple, and two elderly ladies, settled themselves at tables and gave their orders to the waiter. As Dottie walked by, the fair-haired man laughed at something his lady companion had said. Even his laugh wasn’t the same. It wasn’t William, she reminded herself. But why wasn’t it? Why hadn’t William got off the train? Why hadn’t he come after her? Didn’t he love her enough to follow her and try to put right what had happened? Or even to demand in a very forceful, masculine way that she give up this foolishness and return to London?

  He had his job. She knew he had to go back for that. She knew too that he needed his job, that unlike her, he didn’t have a wealthy indulgent father or a generous annual allowance from a grandmother’s will, or any of the luxuries that enabled Dottie to more or less please herself. She knew all this, yet still a ridiculous, selfish, childish part of her demanded that he ought to have made a scene, that he should have shouted, insisted, proved his love for her by his very intractability and refusal to be reasonable.

  But William Hardy was not like most other men. He didn’t make demands, insist on his own way, didn’t try to assume some role of entitled lordship over her that required her unquestioning obedience. He was considerate, accommodating, respectful of her views and opinions, and above all, he was conscientious in doing his duty as a police officer. Values that she had admired, that had meant so much to her, yet which were exactly the cause of this whole situation.

  He had pleaded. Yes, she had to admit he had pleaded with her, in his polite, considerate manner. But in the end, he had just let her go. He didn’t really love her, she told herself, quashing the image in her mind of his face when she forbade him the use of her first name. His expression when she had called him Inspector Hardy... He’d looked crushed, as if he wanted to weep.

  She almost broke down again. Clearing her throat, Dottie made herself sit up very straight and poured herself a good strong cup of tea. She would think about what she should do next. She would be practical and make plans. William Hardy had got to be forgotten about. That was all in the past now, and there was no point in keeping on thinking about it. She wondered if he had heard all about Diana’s baby, and that Diana had died? Surely he would know by now? She could imagine Janet telling the news to her Frank, and the sergeant would then definitely mention it to W—to Inspector Hardy. For a brief moment Dottie entertained visions of him getting the first train up to Scarborough to fling himself at her feet, or to sail in ready to protect and comfort her. But that would never happen. Deep down inside she knew these were just empty fantasies.

  An eyelash poked her eye, and she opened her handbag to get her mirror and a handkerchief to deal with the minor annoyance, ignoring the slight redness of her eyes—hopefully no one had noticed that the girl sitting miserably all on her own had been crying—and as she was closing the bag, she noticed the little pasteboard card that Mr Bray, Mrs Carmichael’s solicitor, had given her. Perhaps she ought to let him know she wouldn’t be returning to London immediately?

  When the waiter went past her to the people at the other table, she stopped him and asked for some writing paper and an envelope. Her rash detour had given her plenty to do. The waiter returned with the stationery a minute later, and Dottie quickly wrote a short letter to Mr Bray explaining that she had fulfilled his request in Scotland, and that she was taking a few days to fulfil a personal errand in Scarborough and would then return to London. She signed the letter, folded it, and copied his address from the card onto the envelope in her neat, if somewhat schoolgirlish hand, then she sealed the letter and gave it to the same waiter the next time he went past.

  Now, surely, she had done everything?

  Chapter Six

  NEXT MORNING, SHE SAW the familiar Lyons’ Corner House sign moving in the breeze that ran up from the sea. She went inside, it wasn’t busy yet, and she had her pick of the tables. She chose one beside the large plate-glass window and sat looking out into the street. Two couples followed her in, ordering their drinks almost immediately, and the everyday noises of conversations and movement bubbled around Dottie, a warm safe ordinariness that was comforting. She began to relax.

  A smiling waitress took Dottie’s order, and within a few minutes she had a pot of coffee and a plate of toast set in front of her. The sight and smell of the coffee and food brought a grumbling response from her stomach. It had been days since she had felt really hungry, and she devoured the toast, lavishing butter and marmalade on each slice. Feeling warm inside as well as out, she sat back to watch the world go by in the street outside, and sipped her coffee whilst trying to decide what to do with the rest of her day. But her thoughts turned again and again to recent events.

  Sorrow was there, yes. Her heart still ached for Diana and for the tiny orphan who would never know either her true father or mother. Probably it would be years before she would be told the family secret. But there was hope, too—the baby would be cared for by a loving family, and live in a secure and comfortable home. It was the best outcome, considering the situation. Dottie felt a little thrill of excitement at the thought that she would witness the little one growing up, into a toddler, a child, an adolescent, a woman. She would always remember she had been the first to hold her, after the doctor of course. How she longed to know what George and Flora would call her. Surely Diana’s name would be in there somewhere, as a kind of memorial? She did so hope it would.

  And in time, she knew that her own feelings—now so raw and difficult to accept—would soften into sadness at the waste of a young woman’s life. Whether she would ever stop telling herself she ought to have done more, was another question. At the moment she didn’t believe she would ever stop thinking, if only I’d done this—or that—or something else. If
only. Dottie sighed.

  The bell over the door jangled. It had already heralded the entrance of several more people, but she hadn’t really paid any attention to them. Now she turned and watched as the same man and woman from her hotel entered. It was he whom she had initially mistaken for William Hardy. Again, she thought, he’s really nothing like William—Inspector Hardy—other than being a similar height, with fair hair, and very good-looking too.

  Clearly he remembered her as he met her look with a broad smile and a nod. His companion looked to see whom he was greeting and she too smiled. They exchanged a brief word or two then to Dottie’s surprise, they came over.

  ‘May we join you?’ the woman asked. ‘It’s a bit crowded in here—and we recognised you from our hotel. Is it too cheeky to scrape an acquaintance based on those two things?’

  Dottie laughed. ‘No, of course not! Do sit down. Although I was just about to leave.’

  ‘Don’t go yet,’ the man said, ‘or we’ll feel as though we’ve offended you. Let me buy you another...er...?’

  ‘Coffee,’ Dottie said. ‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’

  He caught the eye of the waitress—and most of the other women in the establishment—and gave their order. He reached across the table to offer Dottie his hand. ‘I’m Gervase Parfitt, by the way, and this lovely lady is my dear sister-in-law Penny, Mrs Penelope Parfitt.’

  Dottie was delighted to meet them and said so with great sincerity. She shook their hands. Her mother might belong to the generation of women who didn’t shake hands, holding it to be a male behaviour, but Dottie was far more modern than that.