New Neighbors for Coronation Close, page 21
They walked away from the pub and towards Castle Street but turned away from where brightly lit shops still attracted window shoppers. Not everyone was there to window-shop. Groups of girls tittered and flashed their eyes at groups of young men. Promenading up and down Castle Street and up Park Street was how those without the money for anything but walking and window shopping met up with the opposite sex.
He had a tight hold on her hand all the way to Bristol Bridge. At first, the act of allowing him to do that seemed alien, almost sinful. Almost as though he’s afraid I might run away, she thought.
They looked down into the dank water of the river Avon. He fumbled in his pocket, brought out a fresh packet of cigarettes. Remembering she disliked cigarette smoke, he put them away again.
His focus remained on the dark water of the river.
She sensed he had something to say but feared hearing it.
Her courage came back. ‘What is it, Robin?’
Without warning, he grabbed hold of her and kissed her passionately, so much so that she was breathless when his lips left hers. His hands remained on her shoulders. His look was intense. She’d been right about his intentions. In a way it sullied the evening. In another way it confused her.
He tried to kiss her again but was halted when she lay her hands hard against his chest and pushed him away.
‘We can’t consider marking time with each other, Robin. I’m sorry. Let’s keep our distance – at least for now. Time to go,’ she said to him. ‘This was just a night out between old friends. We’re both married, Robin, so it’s all that we can be.’
The light from a streetlamp caught the disappointment in his eyes.
He seemed to shake himself back from the place he had been. ‘Of course we are.’
She was relieved to leave him, to get on the bus, find a seat. She had to be sensible. Whilst Roy was her husband, she dare not do anything else.
26
Cheeks pinched pink by the crisp air, Jenny rested on the garden spade Maude’s husband had given her. He had a whole shed full of gardening and other tools, the shed itself made from bits of wood he’d gathered from discarded packaging. From the same supply, he’d built a shed for his two goats.
The apple tree had lost its leaves, but the cabbages, potatoes and carrots were holding their own despite the frost. She hoped to plant her own next season and that old Mr Clark, the previous tenant, would smile down on her efforts. According to Thelma, he’d been a dedicated gardener.
‘He believed in growing things you could eat – not like her next door, flowers, flowers, flowers.’
Jenny smiled to herself. Thelma had firm views about everyone who had or was now living in the street.
Her eyes strayed to the other side of the garden fence. Even at this time of year, there were still a few flowers remaining in sheltered spots next door. Pride of place went to the bulging yellow heads of chrysanthemums. Before they’d flowered, her neighbors had enclosed the budding heads with brown paper which was now removed. The perfectly rounded heads stood like a battalion of small suns, bright gold in the winter light.
The two sisters were out there, watering and deadheading, backs bent, heads hidden.
Should she say good morning? It was the neighborly thing to do, though judging from experience, they would not respond. She decided to go for it anyway.
‘Good morning.’
Mrs Partridge carried on with what she was doing. Dorothy’s sister, Harriet, jerked her head up. First there was surprise. The two sisters had little to do with their neighbors.
A slight nod of the head and a strained smile. No returned greeting.
Surprised she’d got this far, Jenny persisted. ‘Nice day so far. Rain later.’
She became aware of the sour gaze Dorothy directed at her sister. Harriet gave a muted nod and a mumbled yes before bending back to the task in hand.
‘That was a start,’ Jenny muttered to herself, picking up the garden spade and digging it into the loamy soil.
As she dug, she recalled the night she’d gone to the pictures with Thelma and Roy had returned home unexpectedly. There had been a definite smell of cigarette smoke from the person who’d first intervened. So, Jenny thought with a secret smile, Dorothy rules the roost with a rod of iron and Harriet sneaks outside to break the rules. She smokes. It was no big guess to assume that Dorothy disapproved.
Harriet, Jenny decided, could be a lot more friendly without her sister around.
She might have pursued her theory and tried again, but someone was knocking at the front door.
Pulling off her boots at the back door, she wiped her hands down her hips and headed for the front door.
She didn’t recognise the man who stood there. He had a round face, small eyes and a thin black moustache – like the one her husband now sported.
He introduced himself as Trevor Collins and stated that he worked for the council.
‘I hold a senior position in the Housing Department.’
He didn’t need to mention that it was through him they’d jumped the queue and got this house. Trevor Collins was the man Roy had looked up to.
‘Ah yes. You’re also a friend of my husband?’
The minute he smiled, she knew what he was after. He had had a hand in getting Roy his new job and must know Roy was away. But he was here anyway. She was immediately on her guard.
She stood in front of the door half closing it behind her. Expression as stiff as her body, she asked, ‘So what can I do for you?’
His thin lips stretched into a snakelike smile. ‘We’ve had a complaint about people keeping farm animals. Perhaps I could come in and we could discuss your views on the matter?’
She frowned. ‘I haven’t complained about farm animals, and anyway, there aren’t any. Only chickens. Loads of people keep chickens.’
‘Do you?’
‘No. I just grow vegetables.’
‘Very commendable. Can I check your back garden – in an official capacity, I am entitled to.’
She was in two minds to say no but reminded herself that he was indeed a council official.
Inwardly, she sighed, but outwardly she held on to a determined demeanour. ‘You’d better come around the back.’
She could see his disappointment that she hadn’t let him through the front door, but he couldn’t complain. After all, he had said it was the garden he would like to look at.
Swinging her arms with each step, Jenny strode purposefully along the path at the side of the red brick semi-detached.
An unobstructed view of the entire garden could be had from the end of the side path, but she took him around the back until they were standing in front of the kitchen window next to the back door.
‘There,’ she stated in a voice that carried. ‘This is my garden. As you can see, I don’t keep a cow, a pig, a sheep, goat or even chickens. Just vegetables.’
In her estimation, he wasn’t looking at the garden. He was looking at her and the way he looked made her feel very uncomfortable. Despite that, she kept her nerve, arms firmly folded across her chest. If only she’d kept her boots on. Her feet were getting cold and he noticed.
‘My dear Mrs Crawford, you’re not wearing any shoes. You’ll get chilblains. How about we go inside and you make us a cup of tea?’
‘Mr Collins, you asked to see the garden. You’ve seen the garden. As for my neighbors keeping animals, so what if they do keep a few chickens. Almost everyone does.’
‘My dear…’
He attempted to lay a hand on her shoulder. How dare he?
She shrugged it off. ‘Keep your hands off me, Mr Collins, or I’ll report you to your superiors at the Housing Department.’
She noticed the movement from next door before he did. A head had appeared directly next to the privet hedge dividing her back garden from that of the sisters. Behind Harriet, the sharp-featured Dorothy was also looking her way, lips pursed and eyes sharp as tacking pins.
‘About that cup of sugar I wanted to borrow, do you mind if I come round for it now? Won’t be a mo.’
‘Harriet, we don’t need…’
‘Of course we do, Dorothy.’
With that, Harriet swept away from the hedge.
Trevor Collins looked put out. The steely eyes of Dorothy Partridge swept from him to her sister and back again. She looked furious.
A breathless Harriet appeared in less than a minute. ‘Not interrupting anything am I, my dear?’
This, thought Jenny, is the most conversation I’ve ever had with my new neighbors.
‘Nothing,’ said a grateful Jenny. ‘Mr Collins is just leaving.’
Looking positively churlish, jaw clenched as though crunching glass, Trevor Collins lifted his hat, said a brief ‘good day, ladies’ and disappeared around the side of the house.
An awkward silence descended. Jenny met the clear blue eyes of her neighbor and thanked her.
‘I take it you don’t really need a cup of sugar.’
Harriet shook her head. ‘No. We’re well stocked with everything.’
‘You’re welcome to a cup of tea. I’d love to talk to you.’
Harriet shook her head. ‘Thank you, but no. I have to go.’
She took swift steps back the way she came. It was almost as though she’d done something terribly brave and now regretted it.
‘Thank you again,’ Jenny shouted after her.
Funny woman, she thought as she pulled her boots back on. As for Trevor Collins, what a creep. The very thought of him made her shiver, but he was gone now and hopefully would not come back.
Driving his little Austin car back to the centre of Bristol, Trevor Collins bristled with indignation. If that blasted woman from number one hadn’t intervened with that poppycock about a cup of sugar, he would have made progress with Jenny Crawford. What a pretty little thing she was. And lonely. He was betting on her being lonely.
Another time, another place, he thought to himself. And if the occasion didn’t crop up accidentally, then he’d look to orchestrate the right moment when he could get her alone and make overtures. See where it goes, he said to himself. Just see where it goes. And take your time, Trevor old son. Just take your time.
27
At number one Coronation Close, the living-room curtains were drawn back after breakfast. Daylight entered the room at nine o’clock, the exact same time the mantel clock chimed. Its dour, deep note was as tuneful as a death knell. Its casing was an abomination of dark wood and ugly carving.
Dorothy hadn’t spoken to Harry for some days following him asking for a cup of sugar from the woman next door. She’d been mortified.
‘How can we ever hold our heads up again. So, so embarrassing!’
Pointing out that the lovely-looking young woman from next door had been alone and in need of help had cut no ice with Dorothy. Status, not someone else’s safety, was important to her.
Harry, who was quite used to being called Harriet put up with it. In time, Dorothy would have to speak.
This morning, a bright, clear, November morning, Dorothy peered out at the cul-de-sac of twelve houses surrounding the island of green grass at its heart. A cluster of mature trees made it look like a village green of old. The trees had been there long before the houses, back in the days when the estate had been fields and hedgerows. Cows had grazed where roads now radiated from Melvin Square and Filwood Broadway, twin hearts in a host of houses built after the Great War.
There was a distinct advantage in living at the first house on the left-hand side of Coronation Close. From this favoured vantage point, Dorothy could see everyone coming and going.
This morning, her gimlet eyes prowled the empty green. The milkman had finished delivering fat bottles of pasteurised milk and tall bottles of the sterilised and slightly cheaper variety. Not only had the milkman delivered but so had the milkman’s horse.
‘We’ve got manure for the roses,’ she called across her shoulder.
‘I’ll get the shovel.’
Dorothy smiled with satisfaction. They had the best roses on the whole estate. The milkman’s horse had a lot to do with that.
The downside was that number one was located immediately opposite number twelve, where Thelma Dawkins lived. Dorothy’s smile vanished like morning dew at the thought of someone she regarded as a trollop. Sourness replaced satisfaction.
Thelma’s children had already left for school, but she hadn’t seen Thelma leave for her job in the dress shop. She presumed she had a day off. Having days off and holidays were a modern thing. Working-class people had received little time off in the past, especially those in service. One day off once a fortnight. Half a day on Sundays.
All seemed quiet in the house opposite and at least the children were not out there shouting in the front garden or on the green island in the centre of the road. If there were no children living in Coronation Close, it would be a very peaceful place indeed. Children were noisy and overly energetic. They chased around on the green, screeching at the top of their voices. They played with balls, which they were forever knocking into her garden, hitting the heads off the roses and landing in the heart of the hydrangeas.
Suddenly her attention was drawn to a movement across the road. Someone had come out of the front door and was walking towards the garden gate. A man! A man had come out of the front door. The hussy who lived there was waving to him.
Dorothy leaned as close as she dared around the curtain. Yes. She could see him and what was more she recognised him.
Her eyes narrowed and her thin, mauve lips set in a bloodless blue line. The pleasantness of the view and peaceful reverie had been well and truly sullied.
‘Well I never. This is disgusting.’
Harriet started to rise from her chair. ‘Oh. Sorry. I’ll go outside.’
‘Not you, though you should know better. Smoking should be done outside.’
The whiff of cigarette smoke lessened as the offending article was stubbed out in the only ashtray she kept in the house. The Reverend Miles was the only person favoured to smoke in the house when he visited. Dorothy always made sure to have an ashtray available when he came calling and opened all the windows once he’d gone.
‘It’s her over the road. That slut Thelma Dawkins. There’s a man just come out of her house and it’s only nine o’clock.’
The curtain provided a refuge for her torso whilst her face stayed close enough to watch the man open then close the gate.
‘Is there really?’
‘Yes. There is.’
‘It is allowed, Dorothy.’
‘She’s always had men callers. Regular callers.’
‘I’m not sure about that, and anyway—’
‘It’s that Mr Throgmorton,’ she hissed. ‘And him senior rent collector and a churchgoer! I know his mother. What would she say if she knew her son was calling on the likes of Thelma Dawkins at this time of day?’
‘You don’t know that for sure. It might be official business. He is a rent collector.’
Dorothy – who corrected anyone who dared call her Dot or Dotty – spun round, eyes thick with menace. ‘A respectable man would not call on a woman like Thelma Dawkins at this time of the morning. I’ve a good mind to report him to the council.’
‘That’s not very nice.’
‘Not nice!’ Dorothy spluttered the same words a few more times before turning her attention back to Mr Throgmorton. In winter, he wore a gaberdine mac over his suit and a brown trilby hat jauntily pulled over one eye. His suit was dark – summer and winter; just as it should be. Dorothy liked things to be traditional, robust, and stoutly Protestant orientated.
Cigarettes and matches pushed to one side the carpet sweeper rattled over the carpet behind her. A short comment accompanied it. ‘He’s got a car.’
‘I know he’s got a car,’ snapped Dorothy.
‘I expect he takes her out in it.’
Dorothy took deep breaths as she often did when events and people inveigled her private world. There was always the threat of their personal domestic routine being upset by outside influences. Every day comprised of actions that never varied. She couldn’t possibly allow that.
Dorothy tutted. ‘I don’t wish to think of him taking her out in it. I don’t wish to think of what they might get up to.’ She shivered. ‘It disgusts me. Yes. I will write to the council.’
‘Didn’t you say that he had a hand in getting the close renamed? You wouldn’t want him to get in any trouble.’
It was Dorothy who perched on a stepladder once a week and dusted off the sign. Every two weeks, she washed it with carbolic soap and water. It didn’t matter to her that the kids stood behind her on the green laughing at her efforts. Neither did it matter that the hand-painted sign was set atop a pole. Keeping the sign clean was her patriotic duty and nothing would stop her from doing the job.
‘You don’t own it,’ Thelma Dawkins had said when she’d sauntered by. ‘It belongs to all of us that live yer.’
Dorothy had long made a vow never to speak to Thelma, but on that occasion, she couldn’t help herself.
‘The sign is outside my house and is thus my responsibility. Unless you’d like to take turns cleaning it? No? I didn’t think so. Good afternoon.’
With that, she’d vanished indoors, though looked out from her living-room window long enough to see Thelma Dawkins laughing with her friend Cath Lockhart, pointing at the sign, then at her living-room window, where she had been hiding behind a curtain. She’d ducked out of sight.
Her indignation had ached like an open wound. She’d been waiting for her chance to have a go at this neighbor she didn’t want.
‘Revenge is best served cold,’ said Dorothy, her voice matching that one chilly word. ‘It wouldn’t be fair to report him, at least not yet. Even so, the man should have more sense than to consort with the likes of Thelma Dawkins.
In all honesty, she felt a begrudging gratefulness to Mr Throgmorton for his part in the renaming of the close. However, she had no time at all for lustful men and fallen women. His behaviour surprised her, though Thelma’s did not. She was what she was.
