New Neighbours for Coronation Close, page 2
Wisps of grey hair floating on the morning chill, Isaac dug into the sack again and pulled out a small bunch of bananas. ‘For your girls.’
She smiled at him. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
The corners of his eyes turned downwards, and their colour turned dark and still like glass.
Jenny saw the sadness and guessed bittersweet memories had come to mind of his own children – two daughters – who had died from diphtheria four years ago. They would have been the same age as her two daughters by now; Tilly was eleven and Gloria was nine. Consequently, he provided what he could to feed them as he would have done those he had lost.
‘You were saying something just now, Mr Jacobs. I didn’t catch what it was.’
‘He’s dead.’ He screeched the word, raised his hands to shoulder level and waved them around.
‘Dead?’
‘I could not believe it. It is the end of an era. The end of an era.’
He was beside himself. For one worrying moment, it occurred to Jenny that he was referring to the death of the relative who owned the business. If so, he might have lost his job, but surely nobody described getting the sack as the end of an era.
‘Oh, Mr Jacobs. What’s happened to you?’
He looked astounded. ‘Me? Nothing. Have you not heard the news?’
She frowned. ‘No. I haven’t got a newspaper and my wireless is being mended.’ She could have said that the accumulator needed to go to Grundy’s garage to be charged. But then Isaac would have offered to take it up for her. She didn’t want anyone knowing about Roy’s behaviour. Gossip spread like weeds in the Pithay. Fingers would be pointed. Her daughters would be the subject of pity. Pity could undermine confidence. Not that they were the only poverty-stricken family in the Pithay with a father too free with his fists and tight with his money. ‘Such a nuisance.’ Even to her own ears, the excuse sounded true. ‘So, who’s dead?’
‘Well, this can tell you the news better than me.’
Isaac dived into his sack again and brought out the front page of the morning newspaper. He held it up. The headlines were bounded in a black border. ‘Old Fred Crouch bought this. Heard the newspaper seller shouting it out. He can’t read himself, so brought it in for us that can. We all read it. We were stunned to silence for a full minute or more.’ Sweeping his cap from his bald pate amidst whisps of grey, he bowed his head and muttered, ‘May his majesty rest in peace.’
Jenny’s eyes skimmed swiftly over the front page of the Bristol Mercury.
THE KING IS DEAD
Even without the black border, the headline was sombre yet at the same time extremely striking.
She read through the article, noticing that, just for once, there were no advertisements for liver pills, corsets or shoe polish jostling for space on the front page, their omission a mark of respect for the old king.
She sighed and placing one hand over her heart expressed her wish that he rested in peace.
She asked him if she could keep it.
‘Course you can, but only after you have read it to Ruth. She never did learn how to read and write and, much as I hate to admit it, she said that my voice is like the gurgling of an old drain.’ He beamed. ‘She likes the sound of your voice.’
‘I’ll come right away.’
‘That’s good.’ He shook his head again, then shivered. ‘It’s freezing cold and the news makes it colder. Would you care to join us for a cup of tea in front of the fire?’
Accepting his invitation, Jenny followed him up the narrow staircase to the set of rooms he shared with his wife on the first floor. The narrow wooden treads creaked underfoot. Dust fell from worm infestations that had eaten the strength from the timbers and spiders scurried into dark corners.
As it swung open, the warped door to the first-floor room made a sound as though it was in pain. Jenny took shallow breaths. The room smelt musty, the furniture, all of which had been bought second-hand, had a worn smell, as though the cooking smells and debris of a century had permeated its thick, dark upholstery.
Ruth looked up as they came in, her moon-shaped face breaking into a smile when she saw who it was. ‘Oh, Mrs Jenny! My very favourite neighbour. How are you today?’ Then her face dropped. ‘Have you heard the news? It was on the wireless.’
‘I have told her, Ruth. I read it in the newspaper. This newspaper.’ He flapped the newspaper above his head. ‘The king we knew is dead. It is his son who will now be king.’
Jenny eyed the thick piece of velvet hanging from the mantelpiece. Pictures made from cloth hung on the walls. Most composed biblical subjects: Daniel in the lions’ den, Samson wielding the jawbone of an ass, Moses found in the bullrushes. Ruth had explained to her that they’d once belonged to her mother.
The room wasn’t as clean as it could be, but Ruth’s health being bad, she did what she could; not that there was any way of totally obliterating the smell of five hundred years of decay. Every so often, a whiff of drains was also detectable. Even in her rooms at the top of the house, the obnoxious stench of decay often drifted up from the backyard and drains that were almost as old as the house.
‘Mrs Jenny, please sit down,’ said Ruth, gesturing at the nearest chair.
Jenny thanked her.
Ruth’s lower body was wide enough to fill the chair she was sitting on. The sleeves of her dress were tight on her arms. Her clothes were clean though old-fashioned. Her black dress was complemented by a cottage loaf of black hair streaked with bands of white. It was rarely she moved from that chair, preferring instead to wait until Isaac came home to do what was necessary.
‘Please make the tea, Isaac, while Jenny reads me the newspaper. I know I heard it on the wireless, but I’d like to hear it again. But get that cat off the chair first.’ She flung her hand in the direction of a green velvet armchair with ornate legs and feet that resembled claws.
Jenny knew from other visits that the chair’s stuffing was springing out from beneath the seat.
‘That’s it. And brush off those hairs. We don’t want Mrs Jenny getting hairs on that nice skirt of hers, do we.’
Isaac flicked at the seat of the green velvet chair with both hands.
As she sat down, Jenny’s attention was snatched by a cockroach climbing up the wall and she wasn’t the only one watching it. Ears twitching, amber eyes bright with interest, the cat also sat watching the quick-moving creature’s attempt to dive behind a loose piece of plaster.
Swallowing her revulsion, Jenny dragged her gaze away, cleared her throat and began to read the headlines, then the flowing words of a paper that represented the views of most people. A king had passed into history. The king would have a state funeral and in time the new king would be crowned.
Just as she finished, Isaac brought in tea the colour of mud. In direct contrast to the strength of the tea, the cups were of delicate porcelain and decorated with pink roses.
‘Milk?’
Isaac held a tin of condensed milk above her cup.
She shook her head. ‘I’ll have it black.’
‘Isaac. Let us have a drop of rum in our tea. Let’s drink a toast to the king, both him who has passed and him who inherits the crown.’
A teaspoonful of rum was added to each cup.
A slight movement drew Jenny’s attention back to the wall. The cockroach had fallen to the floor. The cat ate it.
Neither Isaac nor Ruth noticed.
With poised delicacy, Isaac raised his porcelain cup. ‘God bless King George the Fifth. May he rest in peace.’
‘And God bless the new king,’ Ruth added, her little finger raised in a ladylike manner at odds with her thick, square hands.
‘To King Edward the Eighth,’ said Jenny.
Isaac finished the toast. ‘To King Edward the Eighth. May God bless him with a long and peaceful reign.’
Their voices raised in unison.
‘Amen.’
2
FEBRUARY 1936
Jenny looked up from stirring a saucepan of porridge over the fire when Tilly came running into the room screaming.
‘Ma! Ma!.’
‘Oh my God!’
Taking the saucepan from off the glowing coals so it wouldn’t burn, Jenny Crawford threw up her hands in horror. Her eldest daughter, barely eleven years old, was covered in blisters gradually turning into crusted scabs. Tilly was covered in them.
She gathered her close, her head resting on that of her child. ‘My poor little girl.’
Wrapped in her mother’s fond embrace was not enough to ease the child’s discomfort. Tilly continued to scratch her arms, torso, and legs. The bed bugs had had a feast and all because she’d only had enough money to buy a bed from Sam Fowler. A new bed had been out of the question. Nobody she knew could afford a new bed. Second-hand was all she could afford and now she was reaping the consequences.
Gloria stood defiantly in the doorway not scratching.
Jenny inspected her arm. ‘You’ve been bitten too.’ It was only to be expected as both daughters shared the same bed.
‘But I ain’t a cry baby.’
Jenny kissed her dear daughter on the top of her head. ‘Eat your porridge and go outside with your sister and play.’
Tilly didn’t need telling twice even foregoing her breakfast, preferring to get away from the infestation as quickly as possible.
With grim-faced determination, her husband Roy pounded the colony of bed bugs with a carpet beater. Not that it made much of a difference. The second-hand mattress continued to erupt with the nasty creatures, little black spots scurrying across the striped flocking, hiding beneath the fluffy fixings in indents.
Roy took a break from his fervent beating, a disgusted look on his face. He swiped at the slick of sweat trickling from his forehead into his eyebrows.
Jenny swallowed at the accusing look he gave her.
‘You stupid cow. Didn’t you check if it was crumby before you ’anded over the money?’
‘It was cheap and didn’t have any stains.’
What she really wanted to say was that she hadn’t had enough money for anything better, but that would only have caused a row. The wireless had yet to be repaired – if it were possible. There was no knowing with his quick temper what he might break next.
‘No stains, just a load of scurvy bugs,’ he snarled, his top lip curling like a bulldog.
‘I didn’t know it had bugs.’
‘I didn’t know it had bugs.’
He was making fun of her, repeating what she’d said but in a wheedling voice she did not recognise as belonging to her.
Her marriage to Roy had never been a bed of roses, more thorns than flowers. Moments when things had gone well had been truncated too often by periods when things had gone wrong. Mostly trivial things resultant from years of unrelenting poverty, but she’d taken the marriage vows. And that was what their relationship had become, a commitment to vows rather than to each other.
She attempted to put on a brave face, even a smile.
‘Our girls needed a new bed. The old one had woodworm. You know it did. It fell to pieces.’
Roy had chopped up the old bed into kindling. It had burned well. Tilly and Gloria had slept on just the mattress for a while until the mice had burrowed into a hole and set up home. There’d been no choice but to buy a new one.
Roy had been in a good mood when she’d told him. He’d dipped into his pocket and given her a few extra shillings that week though it hadn’t been enough for a decent bed from a reputable second-hand shop. She’d made up the shortfall by cutting down on meals – not that she had much scope for that. Ultimately, it meant Roy and the girls ate a cooked meal whilst she made do with bread and dripping.
Arms made brawny by physical labour, Roy made quick work of rolling up the mattress and tying it up with string. He patted the box of matches in his pocket and heaved the mattress onto one shoulder. ‘A bloke works all day and then comes home to this,’ he growled, surly in voice and manner. The bugs had made him bad-tempered.
She accompanied him out onto the bare boards of the landing. The boards were warped with age and creaked beneath every footstep. A mouse scuttled into a gap in the skirting. She was used to mice. Used to all the vermin that lived in these crumbling ruins.
‘Keep yer eyes peeled,’ he shouted over his shoulder.
‘I am doing.’
She followed him from their top-floor rooms keeping her eyes on the mattress, ready with her heel to crush any bugs that might fall off before they could scuttle for safety.
Overhead, the bumpy ceiling, crazed with cracks and punctured with holes, hung low. There were times on the twisting stairs when it was necessary for Roy, almost six feet tall, to duck beneath lowering plaster. In some places, the sharp ends of dried-out laths hung dangerously from bare patches where the plaster was missing. Hitting them would result in more plaster falling or injury from the jagged ends.
At the bottom, he took a turn out of the lean-to that served as a laundry room. Boots clumped over the flagstone floor before the toe of one boot kicked open the back door. Other mean buildings of great age, almost identical to the one they lived in, loomed over a bare backyard where nothing grew except the gloom of a winter’s day.
Only the very slimmest shaft of sunlight managed to break through the odd gap between the brooding buildings. All the tenements in the Pithay were divided into rooms on each floor, some into three and occupied by as many as six people. Three buildings and far too many households shared an outside water pump and three privies crammed against the end wall. The lack of sunlight lent the yard a perpetual air of damp and gloom. The feathery leaves of ferns poked through gaps in the mortar of the brick-built privies that leaned together, looking as though if one fell so would they all. The erosion of the buildings by wild plants and weeds was not confined to ground level.
Jenny lifted her face skywards to where a patch of blue slashed the narrow gap between crumbling parapets. The stalky branches of a buddleia waved from the rooftop next to a tall but twisted chimney. From this distance, she couldn’t tell whether it was in bud but sorely wished it was. Oh, for a garden. She would really love a garden and often imagined what she would plant.
In the yard, Tilly and Gloria were attempting to build a doll’s house from bits of broken stone and brick. On seeing their father, both girls sprang to their feet. Tilly, more wary, than her sister, eyed the rolled-up mattress carried on their father’s shoulder, their mother marching behind. At the sight of the mattress, Tilly began scratching.
Gloria, hungry for her father’s favour and most of the time his favourite, ran after him. ‘Can I come, Dad? Are you gonna burn it? Are we going to ’ave a bonfire?’
Jaw firmly set; Roy acted as though he had neither seen nor heard her, but Gloria was not easily foiled. Before the gate could slam in his younger daughter’s face, she slipped through. Slight, pretty and incredibly precocious, she did it easily.
‘Get me supper on,’ Roy demanded from the other side of the gate.
‘It’ll be on the table as soon as you get back,’ Jenny shouted. So would some sandwiches to see him through the night shift. The night shift was always better paid than the day shift at the city docks and of late Roy had been lucky. He was on lates tonight where a ship had come in requiring a swift turnaround and the gaffer had favoured him. He’d been ‘weighed on’, as they said in common parlance. There had been a time when he hadn’t been so lucky, but of late, with this new gaffer, he’d been favoured more regularly.
He'd been over the moon on the day it had first happened and he’d told her he was in with the man who mattered. Proud as a peacock, he’d boasted, ‘We’re of the same mind in a lot of things. He marked me out and didn’t find me wanting.’
‘Sounds as though you’re his blue-eyed boy,’ she had said chirpily, pleased he was in a good mood and hopeful he would stay that way.
Her comment had not been well received. He’d frowned and rounded on her, anger darkening his eyes. ‘What d’ya mean by that?’
It was as though she’d run headlong into a brick wall. She’d thrown him a nervous smile reserved especially for those moments when he’d taken something the wrong way. Flattery followed, the only sure way she knew to placate his anger.
‘What I mean is if I was the gaffer, I’d give you the job every time. I’ve always loved your blue eyes.’
Flattery and flirtatiousness had always been her main defence against his quick temper and flying fists. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it did not.
Lingering in the yard, apart from her husband and happy to be so, she rubbed the damp from her arms and tried to think back to a time when she hadn’t walked on eggshells. Very early on, it seemed, but the exact moment when he’d ceased to be her Prince Charming was difficult to pin down.
In fairy tales, the prince marrying the princess was followed by the words happy ever after. Only in fairy tales, she thought as she made her way back into the house.
Before going back up, she shovelled some more coal into the brass scuttle she kept by the tiny fireplace that barely held enough of a fire bed to boil a kettle, let alone warm a room.
As she climbed the six flights of stairs to their rooms, she consoled herself with the fact that him getting work more regularly meant there’d be a bit of extra money. Hopefully he would hand some of it over. It would help, though it would still be shoulder of lamb for Sunday roast, not a rib of beef. Oh, for such a wonderful item.
The girls were getting bigger, growing out of their clothes. For their sake, she would ask him for a bit more. All she had to do was pluck up the courage. The girls’ room was small so it was still a case of sharing a bed. What wouldn’t she give for them to have a separate bed each, but circumstances wouldn’t allow – not for now anyway.
