New Neighbors for Coronation Close, page 27
The thought solidified and became more amenable. Before long she spoke softly, asking the question, ‘When do you leave?’
‘In two days.’
She asked him about money.
‘You’ll get paid when the army pays me.’
‘I mean now.’
He gave her two crisp five-pound notes. She didn’t ask where they had come from or exclaim that it looked as though he’d been earning a great deal of money.
‘The Black shirts are generous.’
He shook his head. ‘That’s the last from them. The membership is far less than it used to be thanks to that bloke Hitler over in Germany. People are going off the idea. You do right by me and we stay married and I’ll take care of the money. They’re my daughters after all.’
She nodded, eyes downcast and her feelings in turmoil.
‘Yes. They’re your daughters.’
‘Just tell them I’ve joined the army. Nothing else. Do you promise that?’
‘Yes.’ More nodding, more agreeing because there was nothing else she could do. Their marriage had been unhappy for both of them. Somehow, some way they would carry on living, maintaining a façade to cover the truth. Society laid down rules that didn’t always suit or make sense. They would both do what had to be done.
And so it was, on a December morning when the morning mist shrouded one side of Coronation Close from the other, Roy took his leave for what appeared to be the very last time. He had said he would come back and check on his daughters, but Jenny didn’t believe him.
Gloria clung onto him to the last, blubbering that she didn’t want him to go. Tilly merely said goodbye and wrapped her arm around her mother.
A few of her neighbors came out to cheer him on his way. To Jenny’s surprise, Dorothy Partridge was one of them, hanging onto the garden gate waving a union jack. Her sister hung back on the front doorstep, looking on but giving no sign of approval, a deep frown creasing her brow.
The white mist drifted around the frosted hedges and bare trees like the ripped shards of a bridal veil.
On the outside, Jenny gave the impression of being the loving wife left behind. Only she wasn’t. Neither was he the loving husband. He was something she’d not realised before, a secret to be kept for his sake, for her sake and that of her children.
37
FRIDAY 11 DECEMBER, 1936
Thelma sat herself down and put her feet up. Bert was sitting opposite her, though making ready to go home. His mother would be expecting him.
Thelma hummed along to the music playing on the wireless, drained her last cup of tea of the evening and settled back in the chair.
After fetching his coat and hat from the hallway, Bert came back in.
‘Well, I’ll be off then,’ he said as he pushed one arm and then the other into his coat sleeves and set his hat on his head.
‘Shame you couldn’t stay longer,’ Thelma said tellingly.
Bert shook a finger. ‘Now, now, Thelma my darling. Don’t try to tempt me. You know my mother will be waiting.’
‘Is she really not feeling too well?’
‘No, she’s not. She has not been the same since that nonsense in the paper about the king and his problems. I told her it would all blow over, but it doesn’t stop her worrying.’
Thelma frowned. She’d pushed the offending article to the back of her mind, confident that the king would do his duty to Great Britain and the empire.
The mantel clock, which was reputed a little fast, chimed ten. Thelma got to her feet. ‘I’ll see you to the door.’
He opened the living-room door through which he would pass into the hallway. He always gave her a goodnight kiss first before leaving and would have done so now – except the BBC intervened. The music stopped. An announcer proclaimed in a plummy voice that he was broadcasting from Windsor Castle. He went on to introduce His Royal Highness Prince Edward.
Thelma exchanged a look of surprise with Bert. ‘Prince? King surely.’ She turned the Bakelite knob on the walnut cased wireless.
‘I wonder…’ began Bert, his face visibly paling as he thought about whether his mother was listening to this broadcast. To his mind, it didn’t bode well.
‘Shh,’ said Thelma, sinking into a chair, her attention focused on the wireless set almost as though it was showing her pictures.
‘At long last, I am able to say a few words…’
The king! Thelma sat silently, her mouth hanging open, each word like a dart piercing her heart, especially his remark about fulfilling his duties, which she’d been sure he would not shirk. He was categorically stating that he could not carry out those duties ‘without the support of the woman I love’.
Finally, he referred to his brother taking the burden of responsibility from him as King George the sixth. All was confirmed with four simple words: ‘God save the King.’
The announcer came back to say that BBC programmes would cease for the evening.
For what seemed half an hour but could only have been minutes, Thelma sat there whilst Bert hovered by the door twirling the brim of his hat between his fingers. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what mother will say.’ He looked at her. ‘I’d better go. She’ll be worrying. Will you be all right?’
Eyes glazed and staring into the fire grate, she nodded. ‘I didn’t think it would happen. I know it said so a few days ago in the newspapers, but I thought it would all work out. I thought he would do his duty.’
‘Seems you were wrong. In my opinion it must have been going on a while. He must have thought about this over a period of some time – years in fact.’
Thelma sat numb, eyes staring and didn’t respond when Bert finally said goodnight.
Jenny had been listening to music. Her head, too, jerked upright when she heard the king giving his speech of abdication. She at once wondered how Thelma was taking it. Tomorrow was Saturday and Thelma would be working, at least in the morning. She imagined Thelma crying buckets of tears in front of the wireless, unable to believe that her idol had feet of clay. He was giving up the throne for the love of a woman.
Thelma would need her and tomorrow afternoon wouldn’t be soon enough. She’d need her support right now.
First she checked on the girls, made sure they were asleep, then put her coat on.
Huddled into her coat, she passed Bert Throgmorton coming down the garden path.
‘Surprising news. How is she?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘Stunned,’ he replied, tipped his hat and sprinted for the front gate. ‘Have to go. Mother will be having hysterics. Such a shock. I need to be with her.’
Normally she would have gone around the back and walked straight in, but the side path was dark at this time of night so she rapped on the front door loud enough to wake the whole street.
When the door opened there was just enough light for her to see the stunned pallor of Thelma’s face.
‘I thought I would see how you were. Shocking news, isn’t it?’
Thelma said nothing but stood back so she could enter. Her face was white as a sheet, her features stiff and eyes round and unblinking.
Oh dear, thought Jenny. She’s taking it even worse than I thought.
Once in the living room, they both stood like statues looking at each other.
The silence and stillness was unbearable. Jenny suggested they both sit down.
‘I’ll make tea,’ she said.
‘No. There’s a bottle of sherry on the dresser. And two glasses.’
Jenny took the bottle of Cyprus sherry and tipped a little into two small tumblers. She handed one to Thelma, then sat down with her own.
Thelma downed hers in one, sighed and proclaimed, ‘I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.’
Jenny sipped at her drink and poured Thelma another.
Thelma took that drink more slowly. She had a glazed look in her eyes. Jenny was sure it had nothing to do with the drink. Thelma was in shock.
‘I hope for his sake that he’s made a wise choice. He must have done a lot of soul searching before giving up,’ said Jenny.
Thelma remained as a block of white marble, her red lips a tight line of indignation. She could possibly have cracked walnut shells with her jaw.
Jenny wondered what to say that might crack Thelma’s frozen expression and loosen the tightly clenched hands. Just for once, she was unsure whether the crimson fingernails were varnish or blood. What would rouse Thelma? What would reignite her worship of the royal family?
After a bit of mind searching she latched onto the more positive side of the news. ‘Thanks to Mrs Simpson, we won’t have a King Edward. Looking on the bright side we will have a King George. King George the Sixth and Queen Elizabeth.’
There was no response. She carried on. ‘And two princesses. Elizabeth and Margaret Rose. In time Elizabeth would become queen – if they don’t have any sons that is. That would make her Queen Elizabeth the Second and if she reigns as long and wisely as Queen Elizabeth the First it would be quite wonderful.’
Still nothing.
Thelma continued to sit stock-still which made Jenny wonder if she’d been listening. She couldn’t be sure, but consequently felt a great urge to give her a prod, just to ensure she hadn’t really turned to stone.
‘Thelma…’
It was sudden, it was alarming, like a Jack in the box on the end of a spring. Thelma sprang from her chair. ‘How dare he,’ she shouted, racing around the room, tearing the pictures of her handsome prince from the walls, smashing every single piece of commemorative china with his picture on the side.
Jenny ducked as everything portraying the man who had shirked his royal duties was smashed, broken; wooden picture frames and newspaper cuttings flung onto the fire.
Jenny jumped to attention when a piece of burning paper fluttered from the fire grate where glowing coals glowed amongst white ash and landed on the rug. She stamped on it with both feet until the flame was gone, leaving only blackened paper.
Whilst Jenny did everything to prevent the house from catching on fire, Thelma had slumped into a chair, her face in her hands, her shoulders convulsed in heart rending sobs.
Jenny had only known Thelma for a brief time but had never known her to burst into tears. She was pragmatic, independent, sensible and stronger than most.
Jenny touched her shoulder. ‘Would you like a cup of tea now, Thelma? Or perhaps another sherry?’
Glossy locks escaped the swept-up hairstyle and fell forward around the creamy white hands with their crimson nail varnish.
Jenny did a quick check around the room, inspecting if there was anything else Thelma might throw. Happily there was not much left depicting the former Prince of Wales who had thrown off the mantle of King Edward.
Jenny touched Thelma’s shoulder. ‘Thelma?’
At first, there was just a shake of her head before her face appeared. Her mascara, her lipstick was smeared across her face, but she looked forthright and resolved.
‘That’s it then,’ she pronounced in a firm voice. ‘A proper royal family. A king, a queen and two princesses. What say we get Christmas over with and then plan our street party for the coronation of the new king?’
‘And queen,’ added Jenny, keen to take advantage of Thelma’s quick recovery.
‘Should be quite an event,’ Thelma added, her anger replaced with hope. ‘Nineteen thirty-seven should be quite a year.’
‘Yes,’ Jenny said softly, tears of happiness spilling from her eyes. ‘Quite a year.’
For Jenny, it wasn’t just about the royal family. The New Year that would herald in the reign of a new monarch promised more for her personally. She had her house and her children. She had happiness and told herself she could manage without romance for a while. Perhaps she would see Charlie Talbot again, or perhaps not. Old friends such as Robin and Isaac and Ruth were still around. The new friends and neighbors she’d made in Coronation Close gave her great hope for the future and the garden she’d always wanted would soon bear fruit. ‘Roll on 1937,’ she said and clapped her hands.
Thelma, the colour returned to her face, repeated the hopeful comment but also added, ‘God bless the new king and his lovely family. No doubt he’ll last longer than his brother, and then his daughter will become queen. Isn’t that amazing?’
Jenny agreed that it was. ‘Everything is quite amazing. The future is looking wonderful for all of us.’
HISTORICAL NOTES
The following is the genuine notice given to new council house tenants back in the thirties.
The Housing Committee realise that you have been living under very undesirable conditions, and that in worn-out houses it is very difficult to get rid of vermin. But there will be no excuse in your new house. Do not buy second-hand furniture, bedding or pictures unless you are quite sure that the articles are free from vermin. Insects do not like soap and hot water, and they also dislike dusters and polish. So if in the new house you keep your windows open, and keep your bodies and clothing, hallways and stairs, furniture and bedding clean; use the duster frequently on all skirting and ledges, you are not likely to be troubled again with vermin. This sounds a lot, but life isn’t going to be all work for the housewife. The new house will be easy to keep clean and it will be well worth looking after...
The foregoing is directed at working-class people moving into new council houses.
As mentioned earlier in the book, the royal affair was kept from the British public until the last minute and the establishment were worried.
There follows the opening excerpt from Gaumont British News, as shown at cinemas as the government were considering King Edward’s insistence on marrying Wallis Simpson in the week preceding the abdication announcement. The Old English lettering helped to convey the message of heritage.
Our Throne
In this changing hour of the fortunes of Great Britain, it is the duty of every citizen to remember that Loyalty to the Empire is the first and only consideration.
Criticism and personal opinion must be set aside. The tradition of the throne of Britain established by the Rulers of our History is greater than the individual Sovereign.
Stand Fast
Loyalty to the Throne and to the Government which represents you will safeguard the Empire which is YOUR heritage.
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Chapter One
Slight of stature, dark-haired and dark-eyed, fifteen-year-old Maisie Miles was currently engrossed in a world of her own. Though the newspaper sellers and the wireless shouted warnings of war to come, it meant nothing to her.
The world, her surroundings and everything else, was blanked out by the letter she’d almost snatched from the postman’s hand. She’d bobbed out of that front door ten times at least that morning, waiting for him to come so she could grab the letter before he had chance to shove it through the letter box. Hopefully it would be her ticket out of York Street, the Dings and the larger area that was St Phillips’ Marsh.
The envelope was blue, the paper of a quality she’d never encountered before. The letter inside matched the envelope both in colour and quality.
Her brown eyes glowed and her creamy complexion burst into pinkness as she read the letter for the third time.
Dear Miss Miles,
In response to the reference I received from your teacher Miss Smith, and the fact that since leaving school you have experienced some domestic work in the kitchen of the Royal Hotel, in Bristol, I am delighted to offer you the position of kitchen maid at Priory House, Long Ashton, which, as I am sure you know, is just outside the city of Bristol and not far from Ashton Court…
Feeling sublimely happy, Maisie closed her eyes and held the letter to her heart. Bliss. Green fields and trees. She’d never been to Ashton Court, but the redoubtable Miss Smith had told her that the sumptuous mansion had been built with the proceeds of a vast sugar plantation on the island of Jamaica.
The letter had come from the housekeeper who was known personally to Miss Smith.
‘A much respected acquaintance,’ she had told Maisie. ‘It’s a private house, so only glimpsed through the gates.’
It was obvious from her tone that Miss Smith herself had never been into the house but would very much like to.
For her part, Maisie wasn’t interested in the house. It was the prospect of fresh air far away from the stink of York Street which attracted her.
The house she’d grown up in was situated in the Dings, a subdistrict of St Phillips, a less than salubrious area of Bristol, where the air was thick with the stench of bone yards, soap works and slaughter houses.
Added to the cloying stench was the deafening rattle from the marshalling yards stretching from Midland Road to Lawrence Hill, a sprawling expanse of glistening rails linking the Great Western Railway with the Midland Railway. Like the smell, the railway never ceased: the goods trucks shunting backwards and forwards, chains clanking, metal rails squealing beneath metal wheels. Of late it had been busier and nosier than usual. The old man, the old sod, her father, declared it was all to do with impending war because it said so in the papers. As if he would know! She’d never seen him read anything. It was more likely he’d heard the newspaper vendor shouting out the news from his pitch outside the Kings’ Cinema in Old Market.
Maisie didn’t care. All she wanted was to get away to something better.
There was nothing attractive about number five, York Street. It had a yard at the back, a patch of dusty dirt between the back of the house and the brick privy that lurched against the far wall. It was a place of mouldy walls and cramped rooms, packed with shabby furniture and a cold hearth that even when lit did little to warm one room, let alone the whole house.
