It has been a week since William Lovett was hauled away by the police. From what I've heard from Mr Spratt, he has admitted trying to hurt me, but said nothing about the murders he has already committed. I guess he is watering down what really happened. I'm just glad he is behind bars.
I still can't get over what I did to Doctor Trent the night she stayed. Hopefully she enjoys the flowers I have sent her. I've been back to the house which was my grandmother's brothel a second time, and yes I had fun with Samuel.
For the first time in a week I'm reading my grandmother's diaries. I've moved back to 1970, after skipping forward to 1972. I'm eager to read them all, and I'm going to have to control myself from jumping forward in future. February and March contain little, apart from baby talk. For a moment I stop myself and go to the window, just to come back to the here and now. I'm sure for the first time since I found out about my grandmother and Mr Cox, in my mind I called him, "my grandfather!" Am I letting him in when I should perhaps be ashamed to call him that? Another thing hits home about this sorry mess, did my grandmother ever see me. Maybe she looked through the school gates watching me play.
I'm pulling open my drawers in a rush. Yes I'm one of those sad women who have kept most of her Christmas and birthday cards, from when I was around 11 to this very day. After 10 minutes of frantic searching there it is...and another...and two more after that. How can I not have thought of this sooner?
"Happy Christmas darling, love Pauline."
It's the same wording every time, apart from when it's a birthday card. My tears have started as I check the hand writing in Pauline's diaries; it's identical, even in the old ink she used instead of a ballpoint pen. So much for my mum telling me it was a distant aunt who had immigrated to America before I was born.
I'm screaming and cursing my dead mother for keeping the truth from me. My favourite perfume gets thrown at the dressing table mirror. The mirror cracks but doesn't smash. Both my sister and I wrote thank you letters for the money in the cards we received. Did my mother post them like she said she would, or did they go in the rubbish bin when we weren't looking?
Samuel said Mr Spratt had burned everything other than Pauline's diaries. But Mr Spratt said, "I have a couple of boxes, well one really containing your grandmother's personal diaries. Your mother wouldn't take them, and told me to burn them, but I just couldn't."
I remember the way he corrected himself, and the little look he had on his face like he had let something slip. Well I'm going to demand the other box, just as soon as he comes back from his Spanish holiday.
April had just two entries, and most of that Pauline talked about her baby, her disgruntlements about not going out of the house, and Mr Cox spending nights elsewhere. May 1970, seemed to be a mega month of entries.
May 5th.
Today I had the chance to ask my husband's two employees about where he spends his nights. They looked a little sheepish. I was told I should ask Mr Cox. Kenny the ginger haired younger of the two, waited until Dave the driver had left the scullery, and then he told me, my husband had a business I didn't know about, and I should ask Albert about it, but not to mention it came from him. He asked me to think about whether I really wanted to know.
Dear diary I know my husband makes a lot of money, and I want for nothing, but I am bored out of my skull with just Helen to look after. I searched his office in our home but found nothing, apart from locked drawers.
Sat in the rocking chair singing lullabies to calm Helen from her screaming fit, I made my mind up to have it out with my husband, not just his business, but his staying out until the early hours. I suppose I should be happy that he is not here every night, but I crave adult company, even his, and I am fed up tipping his evening meals in the bin, hours after he does not come home.
May 8th.
After a couple of days of nagging, he could not take it anymore. He blew up at me and confessed to having shares in a brothel. He told me the building belonged to him, and I was to keep my trap shut about it. I was a little shocked at first, but I soon got my second wind. Plates and cups hit the walls, smashing to a pile on the floor, as I yelled at him.
He got the better of me and my tantrum, ripping open my dressing gown as I struggled. I yelled at him, telling him I did not want a disease from one of his whores. As his cock forced its way in me, he told me he wore rubbers. Both our struggling stopped and I started to accuse him of lying about his rubber allergy. He just smiled and resumed fucking me.
As he pulled off me after he had come, he told me he only went with one woman, and I should be grateful for that.
May 17th.
For the last few days I have been breast feeding Helen when my cheating husband's workmen turn up. With both my breasts hanging out of my nursing bra, I make them tea and they sit and watch me breast feed, while my husband dresses up stairs. I had been giving the two men faint smiles as they watch, covering my breasts when I hear my husband coming down the stairs.
Today was different, as my husband's arrival was delayed, because of he came home late, and he was only stepping into the bath when his men arrived. Helen had been fed earlier, but it did not stop me leaving my breasts uncovered and my dressing gown open. I wore stockings, brown in colour with a white suspender belt. I walked around the kitchen knowing they would be able to see my trimmed hair through my thin white panties. They sat sipping their tea as if in some sort of robot mode. One of my suspender clips let go, and I put my foot on the chair and reattached it, taking much longer than was necessary. I smoothed my nylon with my hand from my ankle to my thigh, as slowly as imaginable. They sat there as still as could be, eyes fixed on my hand as it travelled up my leg. I told them I knew about my husband visiting a brothel, and I found it very upsetting. I asked them if they thought I was sexy enough to keep a husband from such a place. They nodded still drinking in my teasing.
I then asked them where the brothel was. They told me, still half transfixed as I sat on the kitchen table, and crossed my legs right in front of them. I even got out of them which girl in particular he saw. It was the madam of the brothel. I asked them the girl's name, but they would not say anymore. Not to be defeated, I stretched my legs out wide, putting my feet on their erections, and rubbed them slowly through their trousers.
I groaned and tipped my head back, as my fingers slipped down my belly. A single finger slipped in the leg of my panties, and Kenny blurted out her name, as I peeled my panties to one side, showing them my pussy.
Kenny had already unloaded into his trousers; I could feel wetness on the bottom of my foot. I stood up as Dave was jerking his cock through his trousers with not a care. He grabbed my hand and sniffed my pussy coated finger as he whimpered and came.
So dear diary, it was my old friend, and now madam of the brothel, Sandra Smith who my husband has been seeing behind my back. I have two snitches who succumbed to my teasing, who will give me information as I wish, unless they want my husband to know, they touch me when he is not looking. It would appear my days in the Glory Care Home teasing the residents has not been wasted after all, and who have I got to thank for teaching me, Sandra fucking Smith! I have not forgotten her offer of a job back then, and when I asked doing what she would not tell me. I think we both know what she had in mind.
I wanted to run up the stairs and howl at Mr Cox, but the knowledge I now hold I will put to use at a later date, how and when I do not yet know. Plus it will keep my two snitches under control, if I do not confront my husband just yet. Dear diary I have learned a thing or two, being married to a corrupt, deceitful, cheating little man, and whether I end in heaven or hell, I will not regret a single thing from now on.
"Go Granny!"
