Better Days Will Come by Pam Weaver Page A

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,