Kitty Neale 3 Book Bundle. Kitty Neale

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       Chapter Two

      The Sunday roast had been eaten and as her mother stood up to clear the table, Amy saw how tired she looked. ‘Leave it, Mum. I’ll do it. You go and sit by the fire and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

      ‘There’s the washing up and I’ve got to collect Winnie’s plate.’

      ‘I’ll do that too.’

      ‘Thanks, love,’ Phyllis said gratefully as she took a seat by the fire, kicking off her slippers to rest her feet on the fender. ‘Winnie will want a cup of tea too and tell her I’ll pop round later to help her to bed.’

      Amy stacked the plates before taking them through to the scullery. While waiting for the kettle to boil, Amy dwelled on how hard her mum worked. She was up at five every morning from Monday to Friday to do early morning office cleaning, and then did another stint between seven and nine in the evening at a local factory. To help all she could, Amy gave her mother most of the wages she earned from working in a shoe shop, but there never seemed to be enough money to go round. Though she loved her dad, Amy couldn’t help feeling a surge of resentment. If he stopped going to the pub nearly every night he could stump up more housekeeping, but she had never once heard her mother complain.

      After giving her parents their drinks, Amy went out the kitchen door and stepped into their small, concrete yard, the back wall so high you had to be over six feet tall to see over it. The fog was still thick and she could barely see the gate, but managed to feel her way along the narrow walkway. The walls on the opposite side were tall too, and the narrow confines felt claustrophobic, but Amy was soon in Mrs Morrison’s identical yard. The old lady was in her eighties, very frail now and as she went in, Amy called, ‘Hello, Mrs Morrison, it’s only me.’

      ‘Hello, ducks,’ the old lady said.

      ‘I’ve just popped round for your plate,’ Amy said, seeing it on a small table by the fireside chair, frowning when she saw the amount still on it. ‘Oh, you haven’t finished your dinner yet. I’ll come back later.’

      ‘I’ve had my fill. Your mother’s a wonderful woman and I don’t know what I’d do without her, but she always gives me far too much to eat.’

      To Amy the food looked barely touched, but she didn’t argue. ‘I’ll make you a drink, and Mum said she’ll pop round later.’

      ‘Thanks, Amy,’ Mrs Morrison said tiredly.

      Amy brewed tea again then gave a cup to Winnie before picking up the dinner plate. ‘I’m off now. Bye, Mrs Morrison.’

      ‘You’re a good girl. Bye, pet,’ the old lady said.

      Amy was soon home again, and tackled the washing up, putting everything away before she went into the living room. She smiled at the scene that greeted her. As usual, after dinner on a Sunday afternoon, her parents had fallen asleep by the fire. Amy crept out to visit her best friend, Caroline Cole whose name was always shortened to Carol. She lived two houses down, but to get to her front door you had to pass their neighbour, Mabel Povis. You couldn’t do anything without Mrs Povis knowing about it, and Amy was unsurprised to see the woman peeping out of her window. Despite this she was her mum’s friend so Amy gave her a small wave.

      When Carol opened the door she put a finger to her lips to indicate that her parents too were asleep, before she and Amy went upstairs to her bedroom. It was freezing as they dived onto the single bed, pulling the blankets around them. There were magazine cut-outs of singers and film stars on the walls covering some of the pink flowered wallpaper. They were mostly of an American singer called Pat Boone, but Carol had gone off him lately.

      Carol asked, ‘Have you seen Tommy?’

      ‘No, he’s still ill and in bed,’ Amy replied.

      ‘I don’t know what you see in him. He’s so thin, weedy looking, and when was the last time he was able to take you out?’

      ‘It was a week ago, and Tommy may be thin, but he’s tall and good looking,’ Amy said defensively.

      ‘You need a bloke who can show you a good time, not one who’s more often than not too ill to leave the house.’