Read Online A Promise Between Friends by Carol Rivers - Free Book Online
Authors: Carol Rivers
Ads: Link
turfed out the debris and swept the
lino.
Dad had put up the dividing wall between her bedroom and Pete’s. It was very thin hardboard. She remembered listening to Pete’s music through the partition, echoing from his Dansette
record player. Frankie Laine, Jo Stafford and Kay Starr. Pete couldn’t play enough of them.
Now she looked at the record player and her heart gave a twist. It stood silent on the lacquered black-and-cream sideboard supported by thin, splayed legs. His collection of records was stacked
under the set of teak shelves screwed to the wall. Slowly she walked over to browse Pete’s books. He’d had his favourites; The Little Grey Men, King Solomon’s Mines and The Three Musketeers . Well-thumbed copies, too old or too flimsy to stand upright, steadied by plaster Scottie dog bookends. A volume of poetry, The Ballad of Reading Gaol, which
she’d read once and not understood; a man had killed the thing he loved most, the meaning of which – as Pete had predicted – was lost on her.
Ruby drew her fingers over the polished sideboard, moving slowly to stand by the small settee. Next to it stood the wardrobe, far too large for the room. But Pete had thought nothing of spending
a fortune on clothes. Ruby smiled as she recalled his many suits and pairs of shoes.
‘You’re as vain as any girl,’ Mum often told him and she was right. Pete would occupy the bathroom for hours, until Dad hammered on the door, wanting to use the lav.
Ruby inhaled as she opened the wardrobe. Pete’s particular smell wafted out. An unforgettable mixture of wood and spice that was his favourite Floris cologne. His clear image suddenly
danced into her mind, bringing with it both pain and pleasure.
All his suits were hung neatly on sturdy wooden hangers. Some were even marked Savile Row. His best shoes were lined neatly below, all polished to perfection. She reached down, sliding
out one of the brown suede loafers. It was hardly worn, the sole almost without a scratch. Then, as she was about to replace it, her eye fell on a small catch at the back of the wardrobe. Taking
hold of it, she pulled gently.
To her surprise the floor shifted. Was there something beneath? Should she look? Ruby listened for the sewing-machine noise. It was still clattering away as noisily as ever. With haste, she
lifted the wooden base. Below was a book, and one she recognized.
Pete’s diary.
Ruby’s heart was racing as she sat on Pete’s bed, diary in hand. No larger than a school exercise book and bound by a flimsy grey cover. ‘You’re too
young to read it,’ he’d said as he’d taken the book from her wandering hands as she’d sat idly in his room. ‘One day perhaps, when you know more about life.’
‘I’m old enough now,’ she’d insisted, but Pete had only chuckled and she’d noticed how quickly he’d slipped it out of sight.
Now, about to open the diary, she hesitated. But how could she resist seeing inside?
‘Jan 4 1950. Today R. Westminster, then Harrow. Will call Joanie later,’ Pete had written on the first page in his clear, familiar handwriting. More dates followed. Some of the
entries made her smile. ‘Collect suit a.m. Barber’s. Full works this time. Joanie likes me smooth as a baby’s bottom.’
Joanie? Who was this Joanie? It must be his girlfriend. But Ruby had never heard Pete mention her. She read on. ‘Mr R to the House of Commons today.’ And, ‘Collect clients from
Heathrow. Tight bastards. No tips.’
There was a quote from someone with the initials WC: ‘If you’re going through hell, keep going.’
She studied the walls of his bedroom. There were no pictures of girls, or even a girlie calendar, much less a photo of Joanie. But there was a poster of a film that Pete had raved about. And on
the wall by the wardrobe a picture of an ugly white dog wearing a black top hat. Ruby smiled. Pete’s sense of humour had been crazy.
Who was this Joanie? Ruby wondered again. Pete had lots
lino.
Dad had put up the dividing wall between her bedroom and Pete’s. It was very thin hardboard. She remembered listening to Pete’s music through the partition, echoing from his Dansette
record player. Frankie Laine, Jo Stafford and Kay Starr. Pete couldn’t play enough of them.
Now she looked at the record player and her heart gave a twist. It stood silent on the lacquered black-and-cream sideboard supported by thin, splayed legs. His collection of records was stacked
under the set of teak shelves screwed to the wall. Slowly she walked over to browse Pete’s books. He’d had his favourites; The Little Grey Men, King Solomon’s Mines and The Three Musketeers . Well-thumbed copies, too old or too flimsy to stand upright, steadied by plaster Scottie dog bookends. A volume of poetry, The Ballad of Reading Gaol, which
she’d read once and not understood; a man had killed the thing he loved most, the meaning of which – as Pete had predicted – was lost on her.
Ruby drew her fingers over the polished sideboard, moving slowly to stand by the small settee. Next to it stood the wardrobe, far too large for the room. But Pete had thought nothing of spending
a fortune on clothes. Ruby smiled as she recalled his many suits and pairs of shoes.
‘You’re as vain as any girl,’ Mum often told him and she was right. Pete would occupy the bathroom for hours, until Dad hammered on the door, wanting to use the lav.
Ruby inhaled as she opened the wardrobe. Pete’s particular smell wafted out. An unforgettable mixture of wood and spice that was his favourite Floris cologne. His clear image suddenly
danced into her mind, bringing with it both pain and pleasure.
All his suits were hung neatly on sturdy wooden hangers. Some were even marked Savile Row. His best shoes were lined neatly below, all polished to perfection. She reached down, sliding
out one of the brown suede loafers. It was hardly worn, the sole almost without a scratch. Then, as she was about to replace it, her eye fell on a small catch at the back of the wardrobe. Taking
hold of it, she pulled gently.
To her surprise the floor shifted. Was there something beneath? Should she look? Ruby listened for the sewing-machine noise. It was still clattering away as noisily as ever. With haste, she
lifted the wooden base. Below was a book, and one she recognized.
Pete’s diary.
Ruby’s heart was racing as she sat on Pete’s bed, diary in hand. No larger than a school exercise book and bound by a flimsy grey cover. ‘You’re too
young to read it,’ he’d said as he’d taken the book from her wandering hands as she’d sat idly in his room. ‘One day perhaps, when you know more about life.’
‘I’m old enough now,’ she’d insisted, but Pete had only chuckled and she’d noticed how quickly he’d slipped it out of sight.
Now, about to open the diary, she hesitated. But how could she resist seeing inside?
‘Jan 4 1950. Today R. Westminster, then Harrow. Will call Joanie later,’ Pete had written on the first page in his clear, familiar handwriting. More dates followed. Some of the
entries made her smile. ‘Collect suit a.m. Barber’s. Full works this time. Joanie likes me smooth as a baby’s bottom.’
Joanie? Who was this Joanie? It must be his girlfriend. But Ruby had never heard Pete mention her. She read on. ‘Mr R to the House of Commons today.’ And, ‘Collect clients from
Heathrow. Tight bastards. No tips.’
There was a quote from someone with the initials WC: ‘If you’re going through hell, keep going.’
She studied the walls of his bedroom. There were no pictures of girls, or even a girlie calendar, much less a photo of Joanie. But there was a poster of a film that Pete had raved about. And on
the wall by the wardrobe a picture of an ugly white dog wearing a black top hat. Ruby smiled. Pete’s sense of humour had been crazy.
Who was this Joanie? Ruby wondered again. Pete had lots
Similar Books
