New Neighbors for Coronation Close, page 14
‘My Bill’s a docker. They might know each other,’ said Cath and looked quite delighted that it might be so. ‘Ask ’im if he knows Bill Lockhart. Everyone knows my Bill,’ she proclaimed, not without a smidgen of pride.
‘Roy doesn’t mention work that much. I’ll ask him though.’ The fact was that she had no intention of asking him. These women were her new friends. She wouldn’t be telling him anything about them. He occupied one compartment of her life, these new friends another.
Thelma laughed as she stepped from the front step onto the garden path. Her breasts jiggled when she laughed. ‘At least you got a man in your life.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry,’ said Jenny and made an instant assumption.
Thelma threw back her head and laughed a big throaty laugh that must have been heard the entire length of the close. ‘Well, you know what they say, love. Better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all.’ She winked. ‘And believe me, sweetheart, I’ve loved a lot since that silly bugger got himself killed.’
With that, she followed Cath to the garden gate, hips swaying seductively, the heels of her shoes beating a tempo all the way down the path. High heels! At this time of day? Jenny was amazed.
The kids on the green were yelling and laughing, a ball tossed between them.
‘I can throw it over the tree,’ shouted one of them.
True to their word, the ball sailed high into the air, through the mid-level branches of a sycamore and into the garden of her neighbor in number one.
Suddenly, all hell let lose. Mrs Partridge, the stringy woman from number one came racing out, face screwed up like a dried apple, fist clenched and held high.
‘Sunday is the Lord’s Day. No ball games should be played on the Lord’s Day.’ Her voice was strident and her tone harsh.
‘Mum,’ shouted Gloria, running panic-stricken across the grass. ‘I didn’t mean to do it. I just wanted it to go high. I didn’t mean for it to go into her garden.’
Before Jenny had chance to do something about it, Thelma came bursting out of her front door, her heels clattering like gunfire down the garden path.
‘Oi!’ Thelma shouted. ‘Give them kids back their ball or I’ll be over that fence and giving you a bloody good kick.’
Thelma’s loud bellow brought other women out into their front gardens, some leaning on their gates, keen to see what would happen next.
Cath came running from the other end of the cul-de-sac. One side of her head was a mass of bouncing curls. The other was still spiked with curlers that she hadn’t yet had chance to take out.
The garden gate of number one swung on its hinges and crashed against the privet hedge. Thelma stormed up the path, Cath close behind her.
Jenny patted her daughter on the head. ‘Wait here. I’ll get your ball back.’
On seeing Thelma and Cath storming up her garden path, Mother Partridge – who seemed far from motherly threw the ball, dashed into her house and slammed the front door.
Gloria ran back to join her friends who were all smiling. Thelma’s daughters didn’t so much look smug as proud of their mother.
‘Your mother don’t stand no messing,’ Jenny heard her daughter say.
‘Nope,’ responded Mary, who seemed totally unsurprised and unconcerned – as though this was quite normal behaviour on behalf of her mother – which it probably was. As a widow, she would be used to fighting for everything she had.
Thelma gave the ball an almighty throw, sending it back to the four girls playing on the green. ‘If she does that again, you come and get me. Right?’
‘Right, Ma,’ said Mary, the girl with the very red unruly hair. ‘You gonna whack ’er if she does it again?’
She sounded as though she looked forward to the prospect.
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’
The girls went back to playing catch, throwing the ball from one to the other.
Thelma and Cath congregated with Jenny at her gate.
‘Now listen,’ said Thelma, leaning in close, her eyes dark and compelling. ‘You be careful of that old bat next door. Don’t let her shove you around and don’t tell her anything she can use against you.’
Jenny took on board the seriousness in Thelma’s eyes and nodded. ‘I’ll be careful.’
Later, in the glow of the evening light, the smell of privet hedge, cooking and wildflowers permeating the air, Jenny eyed the long expanse of garden, the insects flying around the vegetables planted by Mr Clark, the previous tenant , the birds rustling the leaves of the apple tree. She had the garden she wanted. She had the house she wanted. On top of all that, and a distinct bonus, her new friends had taken her to their hearts in double quick time. Things could not have been better, except…
Her gaze transferred to the house next door. No light fell from its tightly shut windows, not a chink showed from the dark, drawn curtains.
She’d felt so light these past few days, so happy to be here. Meeting Thelma and Cath had made her happier than she’d been for years.
Would that happiness continue? Mrs Partridge’s reaction to the ball had been trivial. That’s what she told herself. It was hard to believe that this oasis of calm viewed on such a lovely evening was not her little slice of heaven. She hoped it would remain so, but only time would tell.
13
AUGUST 1936
Before going to work, Thelma hooked out a very pretty dress she’d bought at a jumble sale the previous week. It had been of a style harking back to the twenties when a straight up, straight down figure was lauded. A tuck here and a tuck there and she could bring it right up to date.
‘Is that a new frock for you, Ma,’ asked Alice as she hooked two slices of bacon out of the pan and slapped each onto a slice of bread – one for her, one for her sister. At just nine years of age, she took pride in getting breakfast for the pair of them before setting off for school. Thelma never had the time, seeing as she had to get the bus at eight to get into town on time.
Thelma laughed. ‘No, darling. I never did dance the Charleston.’
Alice and Mary exchanged frowns. ‘What’s a Charleston?’
‘Da, da, da, da,’ she sang and did a pretty good attempt at the dance, and giggling, the girls joined in.
The face of the clock on the mantelpiece grabbed her attention.
‘Oh crikey. Just look at the time. Must get going.’
She loved working for Bertrams, so as usual set off to work with a spring in her step. It was the best job she’d ever had and regular customers were beginning to ask for her. Fashion was her thing. She loved clothes and was always well presented, plus she knew how to flatter.
‘I think your husband will fall in love with you all over again,’ said a smiling Thelma later that morning as she folded and wrapped the royal blue dress for the middle-aged customer who had bought it.
‘Do you really think so?’
Even though the top half of the woman’s face was covered by a net veil, Thelma saw a pink flush creeping up her and heard the almost girlish laugh.
‘I’m absolutely certain. Here you are. Do come in again and tell us how many people at the Masonic dance thought you were the belle of the ball.’
Clutching the string handles of the stiff white carrier bag, the name Bertrams Modes and Millinery printed on the sides, black patent handbag under her arm, the satisfied customer left the store. Thelma remained at the counter.
She’d always been told she had the gift of the gab. Serving the discerning customers of Bertrams had given her the opportunity to prove it true.
‘Mrs Dawkins?’
Her employer, Mr Gilbert Bertram, was bearing down on her; Mrs Apsley, Thelma’s senior, walking close at his elbow.
Thelma took a deep breath, hands clasped in front of her, a ready smile on her face. Hopefully she presented a picture of humility, or as close as she could get to it.
‘Mr Bertram,’ she nodded a greeting to Mr Bertram first. ‘Mrs Apsley.’ Another nod was returned, though less freely given. From the very first, there’d been a wariness on her senior’s part. Thelma had sometimes caught her staring at her. It could have stemmed from the fact that she’d been less than honest at her interview. Stating she was a widow with three children to look after was far more likely to get her a job than the truth. She was indeed a widow, but there had only been one child from that marriage to a man who’d never come back from the Great War. The other two were the issue of two different lovers, both of whom had promised to marry her. She’d been caught out twice but swore she would not be caught again.
Women who’d never married but had children rarely got took on if there were other applicants. War widows, on the other hand, received sympathy, along with preferential treatment. Nobody in authority knew that two of her children had been conceived and born outside of marriage. She admitted to being a war widow and that was all that really counted.
‘Please come to my office, Mrs Dawkins. Mrs Apsley will take over.’
Unsure what was going on but holding her head high, Thelma followed him. Behind her, she heard the crisp voice of Mrs Apsley fawning over a customer enquiring about leather gloves. A small sale as far as Thelma was concerned. Her sales figures were already high this month and it pleased her.
Mr Bertram closed the door behind her and invited her to sit down. Dark wood lined the walls of his office. A filing cabinet as dark as the walls blended into one corner. The smell of pipe tobacco was strong. So was that of whisky.
Looking a trifle awkward, he shifted a pile of paper from in front of him. ‘It’s like this,’ he said, keeping his gaze fixed on the blotting pad revealed by his moving of the paper. It was very pink and splattered with ink spots. ‘You’ve been with us three months now…’
‘Yes. A very happy three months, Mr Bertram.’
‘Yes.’ He coughed into his hand and didn’t meet her eyes. She could see he was nervous and it worried her.
Right, she thought, put your cards on the table Thelma old girl.
She did just that. ‘I’m hoping the reason for this meeting is that you’re going to congratulate me on my sales figures for this week. In fact, for the whole month. I do believe I’m Bertrams best. I put it down to one thing above all others. The customers like me.’
Taken by surprise, Mr Bertram’s mouth opened and shut like a fish out of water.
It couldn’t be about the sales figures. But Thelma was nothing if not persistent. ‘Is that why you asked me in here? To congratulate me?’
She could see he’d been taken off guard. In her mind, she was already cursing Mrs Apsley. She’d seen the way she’d eyed her enviously when ringing up a sale. On some occasions, Mrs Aspley had checked the till after Thelma had rung in a particularly high-value sale from their upper range of ladies’ fashion. Fastidious to the letter, she’d always stayed behind to balance the takings for the day. She’d also insisted Thelma stayed until she’d finished. ‘In case there is any shortfall we might need to check together.’ There never was of course, but all the same, Thelma was on edge until the cashing up was over.
Mr Bertram remained looking like a goldfish, mouth gulping for words and ending up with only air.
Thelma leaned into the desk. ‘Can I get you a glass of water?’
‘No.’ His response was abrupt. He swallowed and composed himself, then checked through the pile of papers he’d moved to one side. ‘Mrs Apsley reported the sales to me. I’m a man who believes in rewarding hard work. To that end, I’m increasing your wage by two shillings and sixpence a week. I would like to give you more, but in these challenging times, I’m inclined towards frugality. I’m sure you would agree?’
Now it was her whose mouth hung open. She’d been taken completely by surprise. So, Mrs Apsley was not quite the harridan she’d thought her to be. Best of all, nobody was sacking her because she’d loved three men and had children by all three. These things happened, but it appeared nobody at Bertrams had found out her little secret – or rather her two little secrets. For now, at least she was in the clear. She had her job and she had her family and for that she was grateful.
Although it was August and the days were getting shorter, she reckoned there was time before bed to do what she’d planned that morning.
The girls had warmed up the stew they’d made from Sunday leftovers.
‘What would I do without you girls, looking after yer old mum as you do.’
‘We like cooking,’ said Alice.
‘You only sliced the bread,’ said Mary accusingly. ‘I lit the gas under the stew and gave it a good stir.’
‘It ain’t all your work. We both cooked it up yesterday.’
Thelma smiled. ‘You girls are better cooks than I ever was.’
The girls exchanged giggling glances. ‘Yep. You’re right. But you are good with the sewing machine.’
They were right. In fact, her feet were already working the footplate of the treadle, feeding through the pale blue Charleston dress. It had needed the waist nipped in a bit and darts on each side to give shape to the bosom.
‘There. I think that should fit nicely,’ she said, holding it up against the light, satisfied that it was updated and exactly the right size for Jenny, her new neighbor.
Nobody made comment. Without a word to her, Alice and Mary had gone outside to meet up with their friends. She could hear shrieks of laughter coming from the green.
After a quick ironing of the new seams, she folded up the silky dress and tucked it under her arm.
Jenny looked surprised to see her. ‘Put the kettle on, love,’ said Thelma, barging in yet again without being asked. ‘I’m choking for a cuppa.’
‘Thelma…’
‘I’ve got something for you.’
She stopped dead in the living room. The light from a standard lamp fell onto the dark good looks of Roy Crawford, Jenny’s husband. He was reading a paper.
‘Mr Crawford,’ Thelma exclaimed, never one to be taken aback for long. ‘I didn’t know you were home.’ She pasted on a smile.
For his part, he looked back at her with antagonism which surprised her. Most men gave her a good once-over, noting her curvaceous figure and happy face. It struck her as strange that he did not.
‘I didn’t know I had to inform you.’ His voice was curt and his expression unsmiling.
‘You don’t,’ said Thelma, just about clinging onto a lukewarm smile and keeping her voice level. ‘Anyway, I didn’t come in to see you. I came to see Jenny.’ She turned abruptly from him to his wife. ‘I brought you a present. Although it was some time ago, call it a moving-in present if you like. How about we go into the kitchen and you can make me that cuppa in there and we can talk women’s talk?’
For a fleeting moment, she saw a flash of fear in Jenny’s eyes, a glance at her husband, a glower in return.
Well, she thought, this is a woman cowed. That ain’t right.
‘Well, come on then. Let’s leave the old man in peace with his paper.’
Jenny’s face brightened; fear replaced by defiance.
‘Come on through.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Thelma spotted the look of pure hatred he threw at her and what seemed a trickle of icy water ran down her back. Not many men scared her, but Roy did. There was something else too, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but all in all, he was a wrong ’un. Her heart went out to Jenny.
Jenny gasped at sight of the pale blue dress. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Will it fit?’
Jenny held the dress against her and did a little twirl.
‘Oh yes. It’s so kind of you. Let me give you something…’
‘No!’ Thelma’s response was sharper than it might have been. She told Jenny how she’d bought the dress at a jumble sale. ‘Old but beautifully made. I can imagine the woman dancing the Charleston in it.’
Jenny laughed. ‘So can I.’
‘I put in a couple of darts here and there.’
‘It’s beautiful.’
It gladdened Thelma’s heart to see the pleasure glowing in Jenny’s eyes, so much so that she resolved to alter other suitable items. Never mind that she bought from jumble sales and second-hand shops, she was good with her sewing machine. The dress Jenny was currently wearing looked only fit for the ragbag. But that’s just me, thought Thelma. I have standards. High standards.
Over cups of tea, they talked about their children – always the priority. Thelma told Jenny about her eldest, George, who was presently at sea.
‘I named him after King George the V. I named my girls after Queen Mary and Princess Alice.’
‘I named my girls after my mother and an aunt. They’re both passed,’ Jenny said a little sadly.
When they’d finally finished their tea, Thelma made her excuses to go. As she reached for the door between kitchen and living room, she saw Jenny’s shoulders tense.
‘Rather than disturb your old man, I’ll go out the back door. Good friends always use the back door around here.’
14
OCTOBER 1936
Roy continued be away from home not just for work but also doing things with his new Black shirt organisation that she just didn’t want to know about. Jenny had got used to him not being around but he hadn’t been home for three days now and money was short. It wouldn’t be long before they were down to eating only bread and marge.
Thelma was a regular visitor on a weekend or after a day working at Bertrams. She was always bringing Jenny something old replenished with flair on her ever-busy sewing machine.
‘I can offer you tea but forgot to buy any sugar. If you don’t mind drinking it without?’
‘Then I’ve got no choice,’ said Thelma, a knowing smile on her face and her fists resting on her hips.
Jenny smiled vaguely and busied herself with the kettle.
Making no comment, Thelma pulled up a chair and sat down. Jenny felt her eyes following her, though nothing was said until the teacups were sitting on the table.
