Shameful Secrets on Coronation Close, page 15
‘So we remain just good friends.’ She hadn’t given in to Charlie and she had no intention of falling for Robert. Being friends was all she could offer him.
He looked disappointed.
She felt compelled to reach out and stroke the back of the head he hung so low. She only just about restrained herself. However, she felt compelled to give him hope, small as it might be.
‘I’ll come and work for you, but not until after the coronation. Arranging this street party is taking up a lot of time.’
His head sprung up. His look brightened.
‘Jenny, you’ve made my day.’
She was glad for him, though at the same time wondered if she hadn’t been a bit rash. Tongues might wag and his wife Doreen was likely to take advantage of any situation that would get her what she wanted.
17
Cath Lockhart tucked the bedclothes beneath her chest and made herself comfortable. Next to her, in the double bed that squeaked with every move, lay the person she loved most in life.
Bill was breathing gently, apparently asleep.
Cath stared at the far wall, thinking through the events of the day. The bedroom was plain and the walls were unadorned by pictures. A washbowl and jug sat on the tallboy, the blue and white pattern matching the chamber pot beneath the bed. The bathroom being downstairs at the other end of the kitchen meant that old methods sometimes held sway.
She eyed the rounded shoulders lying next to her.
‘I wonder what Mrs Partridge died of. It was a bit sudden when that hearse drew up.’
‘It’s none of our business,’ grumbled Bill, annoyed to have his sleep disturbed. ‘Anyway, she was an old cow and good riddance, I say.’
‘Bill! You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.’
‘I ain’t spoke ill, but let’s face it, it’s unlikely she’ll be in ’eaven. More likely going downwards, I shouldn’t wonder. With ’er drawers on fire!’ He chuckled.
Cath frowned. What Bill said was true, but she couldn’t help being curious. ‘I might knock on the door and give the sister my condolences.’
‘Might invite you to the funeral.’
‘She might do, but that won’t ’appen until after the coronation. All shops are closing for the day and that includes undertakers. Ain’t gonna be burying anyone until the big celebration’s over.’
‘Well, that’ll be something else for you to celebrate when the time comes.’
‘I wonder if Mrs Russell’s old place is taken yet?’
Bill grunted a wordless response.
‘I was wondering. Our David is on the council list. He could apply for it – if it ain’t gone yet.’
David Otley was her brother and she loved him dearly. Unfortunately, Bill didn’t like him. He was a police constable and a bit full of his own self-importance. Besides that, he was too straight and upright for his own good. Break the most trivial law and he’d get out his notebook. A summons would ensue even for a close friend or relative.
His wife was a bit common and Cath got on all right with her. Only one kid so far and another on the way. He had to be in with a chance of getting a council house.
‘I could ask Bert. He would know. Might even be able to put in a good word for our David. Wouldn’t that be nice,’ she said with a final sigh.
She sensed a stiffening of the rounded shoulders before he rolled onto his side, his heavily lidded eyes flickering when he looked at her. ‘Why can’t he get a police house? Don’t they have some that come with the job?’
‘Only in villages. There’s not many, if any, in the city.’
Bill sighed. ‘You won’t be popular if Dave moves in, so let’s not mention it again, eh?’
He turned his back to her, determined to get his sleep, but Cath was persistent. She relished the thought of her policeman brother moving into the street. It would certainly put a few noses out of joint.
‘I thought I could visit ’im, just to put ’im in the picture.’ She hesitated. ‘Or you could write.’
‘Cath, forget about it and get to sleep.’
She paused only long enough to think it through and then said, ‘I think the best idea is for me to speak to Bert. I could stress in no uncertain terms that I don’t want just anyone moving in Sybil’s old place. We want somebody law-abiding and upright.’
‘I don’t think the rent collector has much say in the matter of who moves in.’
‘I suppose not. I just thought…’
There was no response from the person with whom she’d shared a bed for a considerable number of years.
‘I can’t sleep.’
A strong arm appeared from beneath the covers and rested on top. ‘If that’s the case, go down to the kitchen and get me a cup of tea.’
There was hesitance before her feet touched the floor, the legs to which they belonged enveloped in a thick flannelette nightgown. She sat on the edge of the bed wondering what she could say to him to keep him awake and talking.
‘I want to tell you something I saw when I went shopping today.’
Bill flopped onto his back. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense.’
A little pause, then, ‘There was a man. He was wearing one of those plastic facemasks. It covered one side of his face. I doubt there was much left of his face beneath that. Poor soul, I thought. Poor bloody soul! And then… and then…’
Bill’s response was abrupt. ‘The war’s over. Let’s forget it, shall we?’
Tea forgotten, Cath snuggled down, wrapping herself into his back. Bill had been in a reserved occupation during the war – working for the Great Western Railway. GWR the anachronism also termed God’s Wonderful Railway. He’d been glad of that, otherwise she had no doubt he would have ended up in prison, a conscientious objector. ‘War is the last resort of idiots.’ He said he’d read it somewhere but couldn’t remember where. Not that she’d cared. It was something to celebrate that he was still alive. There were plenty who were not.
Midnight had come and gone. At number two, Jenny blinked into the darkness. Try as she might to get to sleep or at least concentrate on arrangements for the forthcoming street party, sleep eluded her.
Was it a mistake to promise Robin she would work for him after the coronation? It seemed only a small thing but could lead to bigger things. They were both lonely. Would they be able to help themselves? She consoled herself with the fact that she’d held off Charlie Talbot so should be able to cope with Robin.
Thinking of Charlie made her wonder again why he hadn’t been in touch. Perhaps he’d had an accident. Perhaps a relative had been taken ill. So many thoughts. So many possibilities and so many shared secrets.
What Harry Partridge had confided to her whirled around and around in her mind like a fairground roundabout that wouldn’t stop. The difficulties and unhappiness of his life had begun in the Great War. Only now that Dorothy, the woman she now knew was his wife, had gone had he opened up and shared his secret.
The poor man. Such a lot to go through. Such a lot to suffer.
What would he do now? Continue his existence as a woman? If he chose to do so, she would not betray his secret. What right did anyone have to condemn how he lived? Anything that helped him cope with what had happened had to be a good thing.
Down to the war. It was all down to the bloody war.
18
May had not been the sunniest of months and Coronation Day, May the twelfth, would be no exception. The weather forecast said so and for once turned out to be right. A brisk breeze blew, strong enough to send petals from the apple tree tumbling like confetti across the back gardens.
The very air in Coronation Close seemed to be vibrant with excitement and expectation. Everyone had been up early, keen to prepare the food for the feast and excited that later they would be in fancy dress.
Unusually for her, Thelma’s hair was still in curlers, but she just couldn’t resist overseeing the erection of trestle tables and sending the men to fetch more chairs, more tables and ladders so they could tie more bunting between the trees.
‘Not enough,’ she shouted, running up and down, making sure table legs were level, insisting on yet more tables. One extra table provided was normally used by its owner in his job as a painter and decorator for wallpapering, another was dragged from out of a garden shed.
‘Better too many than too few,’ Thelma declared. She looked around, her eyes falling on those she didn’t consider were doing enough.
‘Anyone would think it was ’er who was being crowned,’ Maude murmured to Mrs Lovell.
The tables and chairs were all set out, but still Thelma wasn’t satisfied. ‘We might not have enough. We need more. Ah,’ she exclaimed on spotting Robin Hubert pulling up in his van. No new suit today, just his waistcoat worn over a white shirt with no collar and rolled-back cuffs.
‘I’ve brought a couple of trestle tables. Thought you might need them.’
‘You deserve a medal,’ Thelma called out as she toddled unsteadily over the soft grass on high-heeled shoes, not yet wearing her fancy dress costume. She grabbed his face with both hands and landed a smacker on his mouth. ‘Robin, you’re a sight for sore eyes.’
‘Never had a customer do that before,’ he said, grinning from ear to ear.
‘I know you’d prefer it to be Jenny, but give it time, old chap,’ she whispered in his ear. She jerked her chin in the direction of Jenny’s house. ‘She’s in her kitchen making sandwiches.’
When he got there, Jenny was covering a meat plate full of sandwiches with a damp tea towel. She was wearing a pale green pinny over a dark blue dress. One of her cheeks had a light dusting of flour. Her eyes were bright and she looked happy.
‘Robin. You made it.’
‘I did indeed. Brought a couple more trestle tables.’
‘What about a gramophone. I know you said you didn’t have one, but we were living in hope.’
He shook his head. ‘No. ’Fraid not. I had a couple a few weeks ago but they went. Everyone wants a gramophone so they can dance in the streets.’
As she crimped the edge of an apple pie, Jenny shook her head, still smiling but disappointed. ‘We tried everywhere. We even tied a notice to the sign at the end of the street and put a postcard in Mrs Bellamy’s shop window.’ Jenny sighed. ‘We’ll just have to put a wireless on and hope that everyone can hear it.’
‘We could try it now. How about I switch it on and twirl you around a bit?’
He made as if to take her in his arms, but she waved him away.
‘Be off with you. I haven’t got time. There’s all this to put out on the table and we still need to take the chairs out.’ She called for Tilly and Gloria. ‘Chairs please!’
The sound of giggling came from upstairs, but there was no sign of the girls.
Hands on hips, Jenny shook her head in exasperation. ‘They’re in their own little world.’
‘Never mind. Leave it to me,’ said Robin. He grabbed two of the dining chairs he’d only lately sold to her. ‘You know very well that I’m used to lugging furniture.’
It wasn’t long before he came back for the other two to find that Jenny had finished sandwich making. The apple pie was in the oven and she was taking off her pinny.
‘I’ll light that gas for the pie later. I need a breath of fresh air,’ she added, tucking a freshly laundered and pressed tablecloth under her arm.
Strings of bunting made in those long winter evenings by Thelma and the others fluttered from the trees. Cardboard crowns made by the children and hung from the trees danced in the breeze.
Thelma stood at the head of the T-shaped arrangement, arms folded, nodding with satisfaction. ‘Looks like there’s room for everyone. And a bit of room to dance too.’
Once the furniture was in place, the women spread out their carefully laundered tablecloths. Most were white. One or two that bordered on grey were diplomatically placed between the whiter ones. Not that it mattered much. It was the food everyone was waiting for, especially the kids.
Cath’s husband, Bill, and Fred Wiltshire, his neighbour, carried out a crate of brown ale and placed it at the far end of the table. It was followed by another crate containing ginger beer and lemonade for the kids. Another crate of brown ale followed, then another.
Jenny eyed them laughingly, at the same time shaking her head. ‘That’s them taken care of. What about the ladies?’
‘I’ve got us a couple of bottles of sherry. We’ll be all right.’ Thelma pulled a face. ‘Shame we couldn’t get hold of a gramophone though.’
Jenny shook her head. ‘Robin did try. He said everyone was after one. We just weren’t quick enough.’
Thelma sighed. ‘Never mind. We’ve done the king and queen proud. I think they’d say that to us if they were here.’
Jenny agreed with her. When it came to royalty, Thelma was strict on detail. Besides her family, they were the centre of her universe.
‘Time to get ready,’ Thelma trilled in a sing-song voice. She sounded like a young girl about to go to her first dance.
Jenny came back wearing an ankle-length slim line dress in dark green velvet. She wore a cardboard crown, made at the same time as the crowns swinging from the trees.
The girls trailed behind her, giggling. Gloria was a fairy princess complete with wand made by Jenny from a twig plucked from the apple tree, wound around with a piece of silver tinsel left over from last Christmas. At the last minute, Tilly had refused to put on her costume, saying she felt too stupid. ‘I’ll just be myself,’ she’d said, and went off to see what Thelma’s daughters, Alice and Mary, were wearing. Both girls wore dresses of red, white and blue and paper crowns that looked as though they too might have been made from bits and pieces left over from Christmas.
‘Do I look all right?’ Thelma asked Jenny.
Jenny’s jaw dropped. So did everyone else’s for that matter.
The blonde wig Thelma had purloined from Bertrams was shoulder length. The dress she’d made from the pale lilac sparkly material from the jumble sale clung to her voluptuous curves. Jean Harlow had been far slimmer than Thelma, but Jenny couldn’t help thinking that her neighbour had more presence.
‘You look wonderful.’
Maude came over in her black silk dress. She was wearing an old lace curtain on her head beneath a small crown. She didn’t look a dead ringer for Queen Victoria but close enough. At least her clothes were the right colour.
Glamorous and full of herself, Thelma began cavorting around, swaying her hips in her tight-fitting dress and high-heeled shoes.
There was laughter and raucous comments as she exhaled a cloud of smoke from an ebony cigarette holder clenched between pouting red lips. At the same time, she belted out ‘My Old Man Said Follow the Band’. The kids joined in, though not all of them knew the words.
Such was Thelma’s enjoyment that she didn’t at first hear Cath say something or feel the sharp nudge of her elbow.
‘Thelma!’
Thelma stopped dancing around and took notice of what Cath was saying.
‘Ain’t that Bert’s car?’ she asked, nodding her pointed little chin to where the small black car she knew so well had driven against the kerb.
It was Bert’s car all right. Thelma’s dropped jaw turned into a wide smile.
‘He said he wasn’t coming.’
Bert got out of the driver’s side door and, without acknowledging anyone, went around and opened the passenger door.
A woman wearing a feathered hat and a floor-length black lace dress emerged, straightened and reached for his arm. She leaned on an ebony walking stick with her other hand, held her head high and in a majestic manner headed towards them.
Even from the middle of the green, they could see the luminescent glow of a multi-layered pearl choker around her neck and pear-shaped pearl earrings of an old-fashioned style hanging from her ears. A black net veil covered her face tucked severely beneath her chin.
Cath took a deep breath. ‘She’s come as Queen Mary.’
Although she’d never met her, Thelma knew this was Bert’s mother. She shook her head. ‘No she has not. She’s come as herself.’
Remembering that his mother didn’t approve of smoking, Thelma stubbed out the burning cigarette and handed the whole thing to Jenny.
She tottered over on her high-heeled shoes, hoping Bert’s mother wouldn’t think she was a tart. If she’d known she was coming, she would have worn something more sedate.
‘Good morning, Bert.’ Her smile for his mother was enough to break her jaw. ‘And this must be your mother, Mrs Throgmorton. Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.’
Pale eyes swept over her from head to toe.
Crikey, I must look like a right floozy, thought Thelma, and once again regretted her outfit.
She went on to explain. ‘It’s fancy dress. I’m supposed to be Jean Harlow, the film star. I’m not really blonde. It’s just a wig, see?’
She swept the wig off her head then put it back on again. Her own hair was a mass of hairpins and hairnet.
Realisation and acceptance was slow coming. A slight nod, hesitant but a nod all the same. Hopefully of approval.
Bert looked apologetic as he explained why they were both there. ‘Mother wanted to see something of the celebrations because…’
‘It might be the last time I will see a new monarch crowned,’ his mother interrupted. ‘I firmly believe I should make the most of it.’
Christabel Throgmorton spoke down her nose, as though addressing an audience or school assembly. Not surprising in Thelma’s estimation, recalling that Bert had mentioned she’d once been a schoolteacher.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked Thelma. ‘Or perhaps you’d care to sit down?’
She pulled the best-looking dining chair out, her smile still fixed on the face of Bert’s mother.
Mrs Throgmorton gave no sign of accepting the offer but looked around her, eyeing the tables, the chairs, the crates of brown ale…
