New Neighbors for Coronation Close, page 12
It was an odd feeling, this fresh view of things growing like a seed inside. Everything seemed so new, so bright and so full of hope.
To her mind, she too would grow in many ways in this house, just like that old apple tree that had so far survived and thrived despite the changes going on around it.
She wondered at the lightness that now touched her soul. It was as though the fresh air and greenery of this place had provided fertile earth in which courage might grow.
She sighed deeply as her eyes swept around the room, lovingly touching on things that added the comfort of home. Two armchairs had come with them, plus the green velvet Victorian settee. There was little else, not that it mattered. The inbuilt dresser held all the crockery and cutlery that she owned. Above the door in the kitchen, a saucepan shelf ran to one corner. With a bit of stretching, she placed the last of her cast-iron cooking pots in a row, stood back and looked at them. Black with age and use, they beckoned to be used, to yet again provide a good meal. Many a good stew and suet pudding would be made in those saucepans. Many a roast joint of meat or pie or cake would be cooked in the oven. Instead of roasting, boiling or baking on the range, they would be cooked in and on a proper gas stove.
She eyed it with something close to the kind of attraction that passes between people. The gas cooker had released her from topping up a cranky old range with coal. The cold-water tap hanging over the sink had alleviated the need to crank the handle of the water pump out in the yard.
‘This is wonderful,’ she whispered to herself.
In a moment of gazing at the falling dusk out in the back garden, it came to her that she had escaped both Roy and Blue Bowl Alley. Everything about their old home and the Pithay had been related to him but this place… Her happiness made her feel as though she’d sprouted wings. Her world was changing. Her husband had some way to travel to work and to his meetings. It was no mere leap of faith that she would see less of him, that he was no longer at the centre of her world.
After the gate had slammed shut behind him, she had watched him stalk off towards the end of the close. There had been many times she’d asked herself when things had changed between them. There had also been many times when she’d cried herself to sleep at night, her face bruised after she’d dared to ask him if he had another woman.
‘One’s enough,’ he’d snapped. Her head had jolted to one side with the force of his blow. ‘Why would I swap one stupid woman for another? None of you are worth it. Not one of you!
This evening she didn’t care. Coronation Close had come into her life. She would make a home for herself and her children and cope as best she could with a man who no longer cared.
The children fed and in bed, it was close to eight o’clock when she saw from the window Thelma Dawson, done up to the nines, sashaying off down the road. That was when she realised that her new neighbor lived alone with her children.
At times, she felt the same. She was married but lived a solitary existence with only the briefest interaction with women of her own age. Perhaps here, on the edge of the city, things might be different.
11
Thelma had waited until seven thirty for Jenny to respond to her invitation, then, deciding she was still unpacking and sorting herself out, went out to meet Bert.
No lights showed from any of the shop windows lining one side of Melvin Square which formed the heart of the Knowle West estate. Like the houses, the buildings housing the co-op, the newsagents and the greengrocer had been built after the Great War. Facing the shops on the other side of the grassy square were the dark green railings of the school playground. Dominating the corner to the right of that stood The Venture Inn, dark and vast at one end of the square. Oblongs of amber light fell from its windows. The sound of music could be heard despite it being at the opposite end of the square to the chemist shop. It was in the direction of the chemist shop that Thelma headed, away from the lights and into Daventry Road, where Cuthbert Throgmorton would be waiting for her.
Daventry Road was wider than most of the surrounding streets, where the red-brick council houses were mainly semi-detached and looked as though they’d been given the space they deserved. To obtain a tenancy of one of these houses was very much sought after. Thelma believed you had to know someone high up in the council to get one. You had to have the kind of job that could pay the slightly higher rents.
To her right where the road left the square was a piece of scrubland separating the chemist from the first of the houses. Even though it was mid-July, it was like entering a black pool continuing for a dozen steps before the next streetlamp.
It was a cool evening with a threat of rain and her breath steamed on the air, but she didn’t feel cold. A night out helped her forget her lack of money and companionship.
In the gathering gloom, Thelma knew he was there, the car a more solid metal blackness than the night.
She slid into the front seat beside him. Inside was relatively warm and his breath had steamed up the windows. She shivered her appreciation.
‘Warmer in here. Brass monkeys out there, it is.’
He patted her knee. ‘Never mind, pet. I’ll warm you up.’
He leaned into her shoulder, kissed her cheek and would have gone further, but she pushed him off.
‘Mine’s a brandy,’ she stated in a no-nonsense way. ‘That’ll warm me up.’
He chuckled. ‘You always know what you want, don’t you, Thelma.’
She sniffed, got out a cigarette and lit it. ‘And I don’t come cheap. Never said I did. Right. Are you going to take me for this drink or are we going to sit here all night?’
He used a cloth to wipe the condensation from the windscreen, then did the same to the window on his side. ‘I never give a promise I don’t intend keeping.’
‘I’ll hold you to that.’
A blast of night air came in as he got out of the car, starting handle at the ready. Through a fug of cigarette smoke from her newly lit cigarette, she watched his head bobbing up and down as he tried to start the car. Half a dozen turns of the handle, and the engine begrudgingly sprang into life.
He slid back into the front and tossed the handle onto the rear seat and rubbed his hands together before placing them on the wheel.
‘Bert, you’re a genius,’ Thelma laughed.
Bert grinned. ‘My mother would have a fit if she heard you calling me Bert. “I named you Cuthbert,” she’s fond of saying, “and not Bert.” Lays down the law does my mother.’
‘Tell ’er I think Cuthbert’s too much of a mouthful.’
Bert was a rent man. Not just a rent collector knocking on the front door every week on behalf of the council. He was the rent collection inspector and oversaw all the rent collectors in the city.
They’d first met in a professional capacity – when she’d fallen behind with the rent after losing her job at the Bounty and Pippin sweet factory. If she was honest with herself, the writing had been on the wall. It wasn’t the first time she’d pushed her luck.
A few months before being given her cards, both her girls, Alice and Mary, had gone down with scarlet fever, and she’d taken time off work. Mr Osborne, the manager, had not been sympathetic. He’d told her, after the kids had only been ill for five days, that if she didn’t return the following week there’d be no job to come back to.
More caring of her children than her job, she’d told him in no uncertain terms that she could get a job anywhere and he’d be losing a valuable employee. Unfortunately, Mr Osborne was true to his word, and she’d been given her cards.
She’d exploded with anger and defiantly told him what to do with his boiled sweets. ‘You ain’t Fry’s Chocolate factory, Mr bloody Osborne. They treats people right. You bloody well don’t. And you’re too free with your hands. My bottom’s black with bruises.’
Wincing at the attack he hadn’t seen coming, he’d given her a second chance. That was before management had received a letter accusing her of leading an immoral life. Of going out with men.
‘I’m a widow,’ she’d screamed and laughed all at the same time. ‘I ain’t a bleedin’ nun.’
Her anger had fallen on deaf ears. Luckily, she had her widow’s pension, but that was hardly enough to survive on. Besides, she liked working.
In a letter to her son, George, who was currently away at sea, she outlined her most treasured hope.
‘I don’t like factory work. What I’d like is to get a job in a shop selling lovely dresses. I’d quite like that, but then you probably know that already. You know how I like to dress up and look good. Not for me going around wearing curlers and slippers all day. It might suit Cath, bless her heart, but it don’t suit me. Anyway, brazen as ever I walked into Bertrams in Castle Street, put on a posh accent and my best clothes. Told them I used to work for Lady Bountiful. They weren’t to know it was a brand of boiled sweet and weren’t too worried about a reference. It seemed one of their sales ladies had left their employ in a hurry. No reason was given, but I guessed she’d got herself in the family way. So there you are. I’ve got a new job and I’m loving it.
Take care son,
Your loving mother. Xxx
She knew she’d been lying about working for a titled lady who featured on a caramel, but Mr Philip Bertram had been suitably impressed. The poor chap wasn’t to know that her only experience in selling women’s fashion were altering the old-fashioned items she bought from jumble sales, recutting, redesigning and selling on to a host of delighted customers.
Besides a new job, she’d become friendly with Cuthbert Throgmorton, the senior rent collector who’d come calling after she’d got a bit behind with her rent.
The moment he’d entered her house, she knew she would overcome the problem. His eyes were everywhere. Most red-blooded blokes would have concentrated on the creamy cleavage poking above her gaping neckline. Instead, he’d gaped at her collection of royal memorabilia and told her that his mother was also a firm royalist and collected too.
Once they’d become friends, he’d told her that Truro Close was about to be renamed Coronation Close. The new king had ascended the throne in January. The change of name happened in May when the close was looking at its best, the sycamores lime green and the smell of flowering privet hedges and May blossom filling the air. She’d claimed some influence in the name change, principally because Bert had seen her collection of royal memorabilia.
Everyone had turned out to see the Lord Mayor make the declaration. A reporter and a photographer had taken pictures of the momentous event. Thelma had felt a great surge of pride. She was the only one in the street who had turned up for the event wearing a revamped dress of red, white and blue. Her neighbors had made do with Union Jack flags provided by the newspaper for the photo opportunity, then taken back when the event was over to use on other coronation-themed scenarios.
Now, inside a pub up on the Wells Road with an alcoholic drink inside her, Thelma told Bert of her concerns for the young family who’d moved into number two Coronation Close.
‘The looks on their faces – over the moon they were. The trouble is they don’t know who they’ve got living next door. Friendly neighbors they are not. In fact…’ Her artfully made-up eyebrows beetled into a frown. She considered whether she should tell Bert about the accusations in the letter sent to the sweet factory and, more so, who she suspected – no, knew – who’d sent them.
His fingers gave her hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Thelma, you should know by now that you can tell me anything.’
As she considered this, her breasts heaved in a heavy sigh. She took a quick sip of her brandy – not too much, although Bert wouldn’t hesitate to refill her glass. But she didn’t want him to do that. No matter what else people might think of her, she wasn’t one to take advantage.
Keeping her eyes fixed on her drink, she told him. ‘Somebody sent a poison pen letter to my old employer saying I carried on with men all the time.’ She couldn’t help her blush and the bashful way she looked at him from beneath fluttering eyelashes. ‘It more or less accused me of being a tart… you know, a woman who takes money for… you know what.’
Bert took out his man-size handkerchief and gave his nose a good blow. ‘Nasty,’ he said before putting it away again.
Thelma sipped at her drink and sighed; her gaze fixed on the picture of the new king hanging above the bar. He was so handsome. She’d be his queen any day of the week. As for Bert, well, he was no prince, but he made her feel good. What with the shop and him, she’d refined the way she spoke – not so much as to be posh but just a bit more polished.
He hadn’t asked her who she thought was responsible for the poison pen letter, but she enlightened him anyway.
‘It’s them in number one.’
‘Never mind, darling.’ He patted her hand again. ‘All’s well that ends well. You’re at the ladies’ dress shop now. More suited to you, I should think. You’re a smartly dressed woman, Thelma. I might be biased, but to my mind you could be a mannequin in a shop window. You’re a smart woman, inside and out.’
‘That’s lovely of you to say so, Bert. And thanks for understanding.’
‘Accusing someone to your face is one thing. Sending an anonymous letter is cowardly. Now,’ he said, looking tellingly at the wall clock, its brass pendulum dulled by years of nicotine, ‘time I was going. I told Mother I would be home by ten.’
He swallowed the last of the alcohol he’d told his mother that he never drank. The pint of beer had been superseded with a measure of whisky, which went down a treat when he was out with Thelma. She fascinated him but remained a secret he kept from his mother.
‘Where does she think you are tonight?’
He paused and for a moment she wondered whether he was going to tell her the truth or – like his mother – be told a lie.
‘Out with a friend.’
‘It’s not exactly a lie, is it?’
‘A friend from schooldays who also happens to be in the masons. She has hopes of them letting me join.’
‘Do you think your friend will ask you to join?’
There was a quiet satisfaction in the way he smiled. ‘He already has. I said no.’
They shared the same smile. Some people might regard Bert as a bit of an old fuddy-duddy – still living with his mother at his age. Thelma herself had thought so too at first. But things had moved on a bit since then. She was growing to like him. He didn’t pounce on her and try to rip her clothes off. He talked to her and when he kissed or touched her, there was only affection, the softness of fingertips, the shared smile that said all was well between them.
Marriage might be a possibility, once his mother was gone, that is. He said little about her. Thelma had no idea what she looked like or any indication of character. Bert kept family and personal information close to his chest, like a man playing poker who is loath to show his hand.
In the meantime, they crept around in a dark and secret world, afraid of being seen and reported back to her – or to the council. Officials at the city council didn’t approve of liaisons between employees and those who paid them rent. A conflict of interests; that’s what Bert had told her.
On leaving the pub, a wind driven drizzle whipped Thelma’s hair across her face.
They almost sprinted back to the car, Thelma hobbled by her high heels, Bert holding onto her elbow with one hand and his hat with the other.
Once inside the car, they sat there wiping the wetness from their faces, their warm breath steaming up the windows.
They hugged. He rubbed at her arms and she reciprocated.
She drew in her chin and eyed him quizzically. ‘Do you think your mother really believes you?’
‘She looks at me funny sometimes and makes comment about the smell of cigarette smoke.
Thelma laughed. ‘Crikey, these fags give me a bad enough cough as it is, though I’ll start smoking cigars if you think it might put her off the scent.’
He threw back his head and snorted a laugh. ‘My mother! I’m forty-five years old and she still treats me as if I’m fourteen.’
‘Oh Bert!’
He glowered. ‘It isn’t funny.’
Bert watched as she walked away, gave a little wave, then disappeared in the direction of Coronation Close.
Thelma made him feel good. Full of fun she might be, but she was also a strong person, one who faced the world head on and wouldn’t give up without a fight.
Hidden behind the car windscreen, nobody could see the happiness drain from his face. He’d taken on her concerns about how the occupants of number one Coronation Close would behave towards the young family who’d moved into number two. The council had previously received letters complaining about the old man who’d lived in number two. Unsigned of course. Thelma’s suspicions, plus the fact that someone had sent an unsigned letter to her employer resulting in her losing her job, jarred with him. He’d read those letters about the old man, a Mr Clark, who’d lived in number two. He’d died and now a young family had moved in. It was a matter of time before letters were received about them and like Thelma, he couldn’t help but be concerned.
12
It was late on the Sunday morning after moving in and Jenny was still alight with happiness. Somewhere, a bell called the faithful to church. The house was quiet, peaceful and bright with light. So different to the shabby rooms in Blue Bowl Alley, no smell of drains or drifts of falling plaster.
Tilly and Gloria had been persuaded by a boy in the street to attend Sunday school and Roy had not returned from the night shift. If recent behaviour was anything to go by, he might not get home until teatime.
The fact that he had further to travel had something to do with it, but on top of that was his obsession with Moseley’s organisation.
