New Neighbors for Coronation Close, page 11
‘They might be very nice, well-behaved children.’
‘They might be little monsters. Children can be so noisy and destructive. Not that I’ll let them get away with anything. They needn’t think that! Oh no.’
Harry’s attention went back to his newspaper but he didn’t read a word. If only she’d be easier going, he thought. If only she could be as cheerful and bouncy as Thelma Dawson across the road. He could almost be happy then, as happy as anyone can be when they’re living a lie. In time, things might change. Deserters from the Great War might finally be pardoned. Until then, it was a case of grin and bear it as best one could.
Thelma, who lived at number twelve Coronation Close, which because it was a cul-de-sac was right opposite number one, was told of the young couple by her friend Cath Lockhart, who lived at number eight.
‘They looked a lovely young couple. He was very upright, a military type, and she was very pretty. I hope they get the house.
Thelma shook her head and tutted sadly. ‘No matter who moves in, nobody’s good enough for old Mother Partridge. She’ll make their lives a misery. You just see if she don’t.’
10
JULY
Jenny felt the eyes of the neighbors watching as the horse and cart carrying her furniture turned into Coronation Close.
A small group of women were gathered around the gate of the house she and her family were moving into.
One at a time, other women headed out from other houses and joined the original three. Why were they staring? Would they be friendly? As yet, there was no chance to find out. Having so many eyes trained on her was discomforting. She couldn’t hear what they were saying but imagined their low whispers discussing her sparse amount of furniture, her looks, her clothes, her husband and her children.
The horse had his nosebag and Robin was keen to get her moved in. He’d confided in her that he had a darts match that night and was first on the oche. Robin always had been keen on darts.
Roy had bristled when told who was moving them in. Begrudgingly he calmed down once he found out he was cheaper than everyone else.
‘It’s because he still uses a horse and cart. Removal firms who use a van cost twice as much.’ Jenny had told him.
Roy had arranged with his gaffer to have the night shift so he could oversee the moving in. His request was reasonable enough, but he’d assured her he would have got it anyway.
‘Griff Rowlands is one of the members. Trevor ’ad a word with ’im. Made it clear that he’d gone out of ’is way with the council, that he knew people – and ’e does. Trevor pulled rank and Griff ’ad no choice.’
She knew he’d been referring to membership of the Blackshirts.
The sound of the horse’s hooves had echoed between the frowning buildings of Blue Bowl Lane, she had taken one look back and one only. Isaac and Ruth had said their goodbyes earlier that morning when Roy had still been in bed. The alley itself would not be missed. But she would miss Isaac and Ruth very much.
Roy had purposefully sat silently beside Robin, not speaking to him, not looking at him. If Robin noticed he gave no sign, but whistled merrily, Tilly and Gloria singing along with some of the tunes from their place beside their mother squashed in amongst the furniture.
The sound of her daughters’ laughter pierced Jenny’s wandering thoughts.
‘We’re here,’ she told them as the horse and cart came to a standstill.
The girls leapt off the back of the cart, Jenny following behind. She surveyed the houses, the width of the sky no longer a thin ribbon between towering tenements.
Brimming with excitement, the girls carried smaller items into the house, then promptly disappeared, eager to be exploring, claiming their bedrooms, arguments between them yet to be overcome.
Two women standing either side of a garden gate stopped gossiping and turned to watch. Jenny felt their eyes upon her but felt too shy to say anything.
Two boys having a mock fight with wooden swords and dustbin lid shields also paid attention, though not to her.
‘That’s a nice ’orse, mate,’ one of them called out. ‘What’s ’is name?’
‘Laurel,’ Robin called back. ‘And he’s got a mate named Hardy. Just like Laurel and Hardy.’
With gruff resignation Roy helped Robin with the heavier things. Jenny lugged the battered old suitcases, which were bursting at the seams with bedding and clothes. Once they were inside, she came back for pillows, eiderdowns and boxes of pots, pans, kettle and teapot.
Roy never once looked in the direction of the women, with their crossover pinnies, metal curlers and toothless mouths. He was offloading their possessions as fast as he could. Back at Blue Bowl Alley, he’d carried pieces of furniture down the stairs at lightning speed, leaving Robin, Jenny and the girls, trailing in his wake. He’d been adamant it had to be done as swiftly as possible.
‘I ain’t got time to waste. I’m a working man and I need to work. This new ’ouse is going to cost more rent than the old one. You do know that don’t you?’
Jenny had said that she did. She’d also thanked him profusely for thinking of his family and wasn’t he clever to have made a friend of Mr Collins. She said this aloud to the children. ‘Isn’t Daddy clever, darlings, that Mr Collins considers him his right-hand man.’
Gloria, always willing to curry favour – a trait she’d no doubt inherited from her father – agreed and offered up praise. ‘My daddy is very clever. Aren’t you, Daddy?’ She had clung onto his arm as she said it, smiling up at him with fluttering eyelids. One day that fluttering might be your undoing young lady, thought Jenny. She had grimaced at the prospect before pushing it from her mind.
Tilly, more incisive, more aware of the situation between her parents, had been less enthused and stayed silent.
The idea that he was doing this for his family was utter nonsense, of course; Roy was doing this for himself. For now, at least, Mr Collins was the centre of his universe, a shining example of everything he wanted to be.
Over the years, she’d learned what made Roy tick. In the beginning, he had been the centre of her universe and she’d been foolish enough to think that she’d been the apple of his eye. Poverty and the passing of the years had diminished everything they might once have been or were ever likely to be. Poverty was the worst. Terrible living conditions and bone breaking, muscle straining work – when it was available. Hunger marches were still going on. The heroes returned from a bloody war had been short-changed. In one way, she could understand why the fascists had come into being. But where would it go? Could it be possible that without reparation, better living conditions and the availability of jobs, their aims could become a means to a different end? A darker and harder place?
Not concentrating as she should, she tripped over a kerb. Pans and pots clattered onto the pavement and into the gutter.
‘’Ere. Let me give you a ’and.’
The woman had a merry smile, dark eyes and dark hair swept up into a topknot. Loose tendrils floated like scraps of lace around her face. She helped Jenny gather up the pots and pans, placing them back in the cardboard box they’d fallen out from.
‘Thank you,’ said Jenny.
‘Glad to help, love. I’m Thelma Dawson from number twelve, almost opposite,’ she said jerking her finger at the house across the road. ‘If you want anything, just pop across and see me. I know everything that goes on around here. I gave a hand in getting it renamed. I love the new king, don’t you?’
‘Jenny Crawford,’ Jenny said, immediately warming to the friendly smile and deeply expressive eyes. Like pools of chocolate, she thought.
If Jenny thought she was going to get away without making any pronouncement on the new king, she was very much mistaken.
Thelma’s face fell. She pressed her question again. ‘The king? Don’t you think he looks like a film star?’
‘Yes. Yes… I suppose he does,’ she stammered.
Conversation about the new king was unexpected. In fact, she hadn’t considered having any conversation with anyone on the first day of moving in – except perhaps to be offered a cup of tea by a neighbor who already had a pot brewing.
Just as she thought it, Thelma said, ‘Soon as you’re a bit sorted, pop over for a cup of tea. It don’t take two minutes to put the gas on.’
‘That would be lovely.’
She could see from Thelma’s expression that the fact that she was well spoken had been noticed.
‘Not from ’round here are you.’
It was a statement. She had no choice but to tell the truth.
‘I grew up in Montpelier.’
She didn’t go on to say that she’d won a scholarship to Red Maids’ School where the boarders still wore the old-fashioned cape and bonnet and expressed their thanks on founders’ day to one John Whitson, a former mayor of Bristol and responsible for funding its foundation. Not that she’d stayed there very long. It was still expensive. Her mother had gone into service at fourteen straight from the workhouse. It was her beauty that had snared her father. All would have been well, but her sojourn at Redmaids School was short lived. Money had been in short supply.
‘Oh. That’s nice.’
There was something questioning in the look that Thelma gave her. She guessed what it meant. How come someone from your background has their furniture delivered on a horse and cart? How come you don’t live on the north side of the river?
By choice, she told herself. My father made a choice to marry the maid and the family never forgave him. Her entry into the oldest girls’ school in the country had been won on merit – and every penny her father had. Until it had run out.
‘I’m glad I’ve moved here though,’ she said, looking appreciatively around her. ‘There’s so much greenery and fresh air.’
Thelma placed hands that looked silky white, tips red with nail varnish onto her hips. Her smile seemed to brighten the day. ‘There is. I hope you’ll be happy here.’
‘I’m sure I will.’
She caught Jenny unawares when she leaned forward and whispered into her ear, ‘Just one word of warning…’ She jerked her chin at number one. ‘Careful how you go with old Mother Partridge next door. She hates kids, hates neighbors and hates just about everybody else. Reckons she just keeps herself to herself, but don’t be fooled. If she can make trouble, Dot Partridge will make trouble.’
Jenny watched as the rolling hips proceeded across the road. So provocative were those hips that both Robin and Roy watched her sashay along to the other women.
The neighbors listened to whatever Thelma said to them, then looked across to her, their expressions less grim, opinions influenced in a good way by a woman who looked likely to be a very good neighbor.
Every stick of furniture was moved in by five o’clock that evening. Robin was paid and after the beds were put together, the heavy horsehair mattresses placed on the springs, Roy began to make himself ready for work.
Whilst he went to the bathroom which was adjacent to the kitchen, Jenny made him cheese sandwiches and a flask of tea.
The fact that the kitchen was next to the bathroom and on the ground floor struck her as the height of luxury, absolute bliss in fact. No more venturing out on a freezing night to a lavatory at the end of the yard.
As for having a bath, back at Blue Bowl Alley, it had meant having a daily wash. Water had been heated up on the old iron cooking range and poured into an enamel bowl. Having a bath was necessarily a once-a-week affair.
Her only regret was that she’d left behind two of the kindest people she’d ever known. Whilst Roy was out of the way, she’d told Isaac and Ruth how much she’d miss them. All three had hugged until it seemed they would squeeze the breath out of each other. There’d been moist eyes and promises to visit.
‘And I will. I promise,’ she told them.
If Roy had his way, it might not happen. Roy had stressed that Melvin Square had all the shops she would ever need, plus the school and a pub.
‘You don’t need to get a bus into the centre,’ he’d said to her. His tone and the hard set of his jaw conveyed to her that this was a command not a statement. Disobey at her peril.
She treasured that last meeting with Isaac and Ruth, but the look in their eyes had pained her. However, their parting statement had helped ease the pain.
‘Great news, my dear, great news,’ Isaac had said with glowing enthusiasm. ‘It won’t be long before we’ll be moved out. The landlord’s said the council want to pull it down. We might end up moving in next to you.’ The bright joy in his face had lessened as he’d considered what this would mean. ‘Though I can’t be too far away from the market. Not with my legs.’
‘You’ll get a bus in,’ Ruth had announced more hopefully.
Jenny knew there was no guarantee that they’d end up on the same estate as her. The alternatives were Southmead or Fishponds, both on bus routes, but on the other side of the city to where they were going to make their new home.
Who knew when she might see them again? Or him, the one whose lips smiled when she smiled, whose eyes caught hers with the same longing.
She shook the thought away and began placing plates and cups and saucers on the dresser in the living room and the pots on the high shelf in the kitchen. The sink was deep, the wooden draining board scrubbed. She peered into the coal house, very conveniently placed beneath the stairs though accessed from the kitchen. Whoever had designed this aspect had not considered the amount of coal dust that would circulate when the coalman emptied his sacks in there.
Roy was still in the bathroom and the girls had been allotted their bedrooms. Gloria had bagged the biggest one. Tilly had ended up with the box room. Both rooms overlooked the back garden, the windows open to fresh air, high-growing privet hedges and hazelnut trees nodding at the far end beyond the lone apple tree.
A bright-faced Gloria came bounding into the kitchen. ‘I’m going to show Dolly to my new friends,’ she stated with a confidence that belied her youth. She held up her favourite doll foraged from one of the boxes waiting to be unpacked. ‘Are you coming?’ she asked her sister.
Tilly shook her head, eyed her mother, and expressed her willingness to help unpack.
‘There’s no need, darling. I can manage,’ said Jenny. ‘You go out and make new friends.’
Gloria had already disappeared. Jenny glimpsed her out on the green, holding Dolly high for inspection by two girls of roughly her own age. It was obvious from her stance that she was only showing them the doll, nobody was allowed to touch.
Tilly maintained a nervous look. Funnily enough, Jenny had expected her to adapt to their new surroundings first. It appeared not to be the case and worried her. Give it time, she told herself, just give it time. She stroked her daughter’s hair and smiled at her lovingly. Parents weren’t supposed to have favourites, but Tilly was her firstborn. They were also more alike, Gloria being more like her father.
‘Don’t you want to go out and make new friends, sweetheart?’
‘I’d like to put things away in my bedroom.’
Jenny smiled at her and agreed that she could. There was a cosiness to the smallest bedroom. Tilly had meekly accepted it; Jenny suspected to save any argument with her sister. Gloria had also bagged the brass three-quarter bed. Because they were to have a bedroom each, Jenny had managed to acquire a single bed from Gladys. By further way of compensation, Jenny had bought a cream-coloured chest of drawers for Tilly. Gloria had to make do with a pine blanket box.
From the bathroom came the sound of whistling. Shaving in the evening was a strange phenomenon. Few labourers, including her father who’d laboured all his life, shaved before going to work, preferring to do so after coming home. But Roy had a meeting before work.
She was sorting out the last of the saucepans in the kitchen when he finally emerged clean-shaven, washed and smelling of soap.
Without saying a word, he went upstairs to change. He’d already laid out his black clothes on the bed.
‘I don’t want you touching them. I’m perfectly capable of getting them ready me self.’
It was as though he was afraid of her spoiling them in some way. She gave him a carrier bag in which to pack his work trousers, waistcoat, cap and shirt. For convenience he had to wear his hobnail boots, though she knew he coveted a pair of high black boots, just like his mentor Trevor Collins wore.
When he came back down he wore an overcoat over his dark clothes, clothes that reminded her of Hollywood gangsters on film, their clothes adding to their inbuilt menace.
He took one last look at himself in the old mirror from Blue Bowl Alley. He’d hunted out a hammer and nail specifically for that one item. She could have asked him to hammer in a few more for the few pictures she’d brought with her. But she hadn’t wanted to. She wanted him gone. She wanted this house to herself.
‘I’m off.’
‘I’ll see you later then,’ said Jenny. Some wives would have resented a husband going out on the day they’d moved into a new house, unpacking to be done, furniture to be placed around. Even if he was going to work, they’d expect him to wait until he really had to go, not attend a meeting in which they played no part.
She didn’t ask what time he would be home. He might come home after his shift had finished: or he might not. Either way, she dared not ask him and, if she was deeply honest, didn’t care. She was head over heels in love, but not with him. She was in love with this house.
Frowning, he waved one arm around the kitchen. ‘Get all this sorted and put away. No drinking tea with that… that…’
‘Thelma. Her name is Thelma.’
‘Right. No going over there drinking tea and leaving everything unsorted. I don’t want to come ’ome to it. Do you hear?
She said that she did and that she wouldn’t be taking up Thelma’s invitation. Though in time she would, regardless of what he said. This was her new beginning, a new house in a different place.
She wanted to be alone in the house, to breathe its smell of fresh paint, to place furniture and other possessions around at her own leisure. She wanted to walk in the garden, flick her fingers over the feathery tips of overgrown grass, touch the bare branches of what looked like an apple tree.
