Shameful Secrets on Coronation Close, page 3
Cath followed her out to the kitchen. Jenny sensed she had more to say. She only hoped it didn’t include questions about Roy. Cath picked up the tea towel as Jenny began rinsing the cups beneath the tap.
‘I was wondering whether Thelma might invite us over once George ’as got comfortable.’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Jenny passed her a cup.
‘She ain’t invited you then?’ She sounded surprised.
‘No. Why should she?’
Cath shook her way in a so-so manner. ‘I just wondered.’
The first cup wiped, Cath ignored the second and poked at the curlers that bundled onto her forehead. ‘I’d better get on ’ome and smarten meself up – just in case she does think of inviting me. I do like a party.’
‘So you said. But there, Bill must love to see you with your hair down.’
‘He does. Even after all these years, he still tells me I’m the best-looking girl he ever went out with.’
Gaps showed in her teeth when she smiled. Her cheekbones were high, and although her complexion was sallow, her appearance hinted at the lovely-looking girl she’d once been.
Thinking of Cath and Bill in a clinch brought the visit to the chemist to Jenny’s mind. ‘Will you be taking any more of those laxatives tonight?’
‘Hmm. I might do. Depends how I feel. Depends on if we’ve got any gin in the ’ouse either. Might ’ave whisky. Bill likes whisky but ain’t so keen on gin. Might ’ave a hot bath too. I usually take a bath on a Saturday night, but I might ’ave one tonight. Just to get things moving, if you know what I mean. As long as Bill lights the boiler for me. Yes. Laxatives, gin and a nice ’ot bath.’
Three quarters of an hour later, Jenny’s daughters, Tilly and Gloria, who were more or less the same age as Thelma’s daughters, came in as ravenous as ever, faces pink with cold. Once their coats were off, they swiftly devoured the bread and jam she’d put out, a necessary filler before their main evening meal.
‘It’s going to snow,’ said Tilly.
‘No it isn’t,’ Gloria retorted.
‘I felt the first flakes when we came out of school.’
Gloria ignored her and instead asked, ‘What are we having tonight?’
‘Cold meat with bubble and squeak.’
‘We had that in sandwiches at dinner time.’
‘You had that at lunchtime,’ Jenny corrected. The piece of brisket they’d had at the weekend had served them well. Stewed with onions and carrots and served with boiled potatoes, forced through the mincer to make shepherd’s pie and today the last slices to be eaten cold. Having enough for the sandwiches she’d given them at midday had been a bonus.
School began at nine in the morning. Lunchtime was from twelve to one and everyone took sandwiches. Some of the pupils brought in a single slice of bread and dripping for their midday meal. Those who had nothing were given a sandwich by kind-hearted teachers used to working in deprived areas, frequently bringing in and distributing whatever they could.
The morning and afternoon breaks were spent playing in the schoolyard, running off the energy fed into them at breakfast, then at lunchtime. The school afternoon ended at four o’clock. No wonder they were always hungry.
‘Did you know that Mary and Alice’s brother is coming home today,’ Gloria piped up whilst Tilly buried herself in a book.
‘I did.’
‘They can’t come out to play because they’re putting on a spread. Do you think they’ll invite us? They’ve got jelly and blancmange.’
‘And cake,’ said Tilly, without looking up from her book.
Gloria continued with the details. ‘Fruit cake. And jam tarts. They made all of it themselves.’
‘It’s a family affair,’ Jenny explained for the second time that day. ‘Mrs Dawson wants her son to herself.’
Gloria pouted. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘It is to Mrs Dawson. He’s her son. She hasn’t seen him for ages.’
After throwing a quick scowl in the direction of her sister, Tilly went back to her book, muttering, ‘I told you so.’
Gloria asked if she could go out to play.
‘Not for long. It’s already dark and if it gets much colder, we’ll have snow. And wrap up.’
‘She’s got a boyfriend,’ Tilly whispered. ‘She’s going out to meet him.’
‘She’s too young.’
Tilly perched her head sideways. ‘Am I too young?’
‘Yes. Wait until you leave school.’
‘That’s two years’ time when I’m fourteen.’
‘Soon enough,’ Jenny said, suddenly feeling a great sadness land heavily on her shoulders. Two years wasn’t that far away. Facing her girls growing up in such a short time was disconcerting. To her, they were still children and would be for some time.
Deep in thought, she sliced the last of the cold meat from the bone, placed a plate over it and proceeded to mix leftover vegetables into bubble and squeak. The big frying pan was already on the gas stove, a big lump of lard ready to melt once the gas was turned on.
Being busy helped her blot out the obvious fact that her girls were not children any longer. One daughter out to play and one reading and both growing up fast. How different my daughters are, she thought as she turned on the wireless.
Picking up a sewing needle, Jenny prepared to do some mending. As she pushed the needle in and out, a variety of thoughts drifted through her mind, some less welcome than others.
Her world had become a calm oasis since the end of last year when Roy had signed up, though not without concern or incident. She ran through all the good things in her life. The rent was paid – Roy saw to that. Thanks also to him, she had enough money for food and clothes – nothing extravagant or luxurious, but they were fed and dressed. Not everyone could say that.
On top of that, she’d ended up living in a red-brick council house with a garden front and rear, such a contrast to the tumble-down tenement in Blue Bowl Alley. The rooms in the house they’d lived in there had dated from the Middle Ages, was in the centre of old Bristol and had been shared with other families. Water had been drawn from an outside pump and for them had been accessed down flights of winding stairs. In summer, the smell of the drains had wafted through the open windows. In winter, the cold was intense, the only form of heating provided by a small fire grate on which they’d done most of their cooking.
Gaining a house in Coronation Close had seemed like heaven, providing her with everything she wanted, including friends and neighbours. Mrs Partridge next door was the only fly in the ointment. A sour-faced, black-eyed woman who gave the impression of hating the whole world. Jenny had done her best to show friendliness, but her action had not been reciprocated.
Thinking of Thelma, however, brought a smile to her face. She was so bold, so forthright it seemed to her that nothing in the whole wide world could get her down.
Then there was Cath who made no secret of the fact that she and Bill were as in love as they were when they were young. But there are consequences, she thought to herself. For her sake, she hoped the pills Cath had taken would do what she wanted them to do. Still, at least she had Bill and he loved her. Lucky her, she thought…
At present, she was too busy to think about what she might be missing. There were times, though, when she wondered how long it might be until she felt lonely, but she put the thought from her mind. It wasn’t as though she had far to look for someone who had kind thoughts of her. Robin was keen. She knew that but was certain she didn’t love him. Charlie Talbot, a shadowy figure in politics, did not hover so strongly in her dreams as he once had. She hadn’t seen him for quite a time and perhaps might never again. They were from different walks of life. She could tell that by his cut-glass accent, the well-fed shine to his face, the good cut of his clothes.
The sewing needle paused as she waded through what had been and what was. No matter, she thought. My life is full. I have my family. I have my friends, and if that wasn’t enough we have a street party and coronation to look forward to on May the twelfth.
After grim years of job shortages and hunger strikes, the coronation would go a long way to lifting everyone's spirits and give them hope for the future. The street party would give the residents of Coronation Close an excuse to forget their troubles, the unending routine of working to survive, and give them cause to celebrate.
Thelma was taking charge of organising the party and had contacted everyone in the street to say so. Everyone had agreed she should run things – except for Mrs Partridge, who thought celebrating should be run by reputable authorities – people of standing who knew what they were doing.
Thelma had reminded her that the people of standing didn’t live in Coronation Close and were likely to only get involved with grander, more official events.
Mrs Partridge had slammed the door in her face.
Unperturbed, Thelma had taken the reins regardless – early days yet, but she was most definitely in charge for the residents of Coronation Close.
Good old Thelma, Jenny thought to herself. Her energy was endless, her enthusiasm boundless. Never could Jenny ever imagine her being anything except courageous and loyal. No man would ever bend the redoubtable woman to his will or squash her indomitable spirit.. Nobody would dare.
3
Thelma thought she had the best job in the world selling smart and expensive clothes to wealthy women. She’d never been one for leaving Bertrams on the stroke of six, but this evening was an exception. She almost raced out of the door, swiftly enough to make surprised-looking Philip Bertram comment to Mrs Apsley.
‘I’ve never known her rush off like that before. Have the bus times changed?’
Mrs Apsley, who despite her middle-class veneer and high standards had taken a shine to Thelma, told him about Thelma’s son George coming home on leave from the sea.
‘She hasn’t seen him for ages. I do hope she gets a bus home on time. They’re sometimes so crowded at this time of night and it’s snowing.’
Mrs Apsley was certainly right about that. The bus queue was long and the weather was getting worse. Collars were turned up against the thickening snow and feet were stamping to contend with the cold.
Flurries of snow showed in the glow of amber street lights, faster and faster as the blizzard intensified. Lights in shop windows began to go out and darkness reigned supreme.
Like everyone else, Thelma pulled her coat collar up around her face. Her breath steamed on the arctic air. As if the icy pelting of snow wasn’t enough to make her shiver, a draught blew up beneath her coat, a flared affair of pleats falling from padded shoulders.
Fat flakes of wind-blown snow intensified from the size of gnats to that of bumblebees.
A bus finally loomed out of the darkness, carefully lumbering forward through mist and maelstrom.
Murmurs of appreciation replaced the grumbles of those waiting for it as they shuffled forward until becoming an ungainly rush of humanity struggling on board, glad to get out of the weather even if many of them had to stand.
The later bus she usually caught tended to be less crowded and she always managed to get a seat. This earlier bus was jam-packed, but at least she got on, though found herself standing in the closely cramped space downstairs. She wrinkled her nose at the mix of humidity and unwashed bodies. Condensation misting the windows turned to trickles.
The bus trundled away. Thick flakes hindered the headlamps and the tyres were beginning to slither on the snow-covered roads.
‘Hope we get there,’ she heard someone say.
Then someone else: ‘I need to get ’ome. I can’t walk. Not with my legs.’
Whatever their fears, the bus unhurriedly carried on, not at a great pace, but at a safe one.
She guessed the journey would take longer than usual but contented herself with the knowledge that George had been adamant that he’d be home by midday and before the snow had begun.
Pools of darkness occurred where street lights had gone out. Along the flat main road that was St John’s Lane, lights from living-room windows fought an on-going battle against darkness and snowstorm. Coughs and sneezes inside the bus competed with the sound of crunching tyres and grinding gears.
The bus lurched from side to side as it rounded the corner by the health clinic into Wedmore Vale. On their left, barely discernible now out of the misted windows, was Clancy’s Farm. Little could be seen of the farm buildings, the whole area a great pool of blackness. For now at least, it remained farmland, though slowly being eroded, new houses creeping ever closer.
As with St John’s Lane, Wedmore Vale presented a flat even surface. Everything changed once they’d turned into Glyn Vale, a hill that became Donegal Road, both part of the long climb up to the council estate that had stolen the farmland that had once surrounded the city. Because of its increasing steepness, their progress slowed.
‘Blimey. I could walk faster than this,’ somebody said.
A few others echoed the sentiment. Grumbles erupted, but riding the bus was always preferable to walking.
The hill became increasingly steep and the outside air became colder, blowing onto the platform at the rear of the bus, helping to dispel the rancid air inside. The higher they climbed, the more intense the snow, a blizzard now, whirling around the bus and obliterating the houses on either side. Their progress became a snail’s pace, even slower than before.
Halfway up the very steepest part of the hill, the tyres at the rear of the bus lost their grip. The bus swayed. The rear began to slide from side to side on the cushion of ice and snow.
Cries of alarm went up.
‘Oh my God. We’re all going to die.’
A man swore. A woman began reciting The Lord’s Prayer.
‘Bloody ’ell,’ somebody else muttered.
One woman screamed.
Another made the comment that at least they weren’t going downhill. ‘Or we’d slide all the way down past the fish and chip shop.’
A few of the men unlucky enough to be standing on the rear platform which was totally open to the elements exchanged expletives.
The crunch of gears trying to engage sent shivers of vibration through the length of the lumbering vehicle.
The bus slowed even more. The snow faltered long enough to see the lights from council houses. Like soldiers standing to attention, they lined the hill on both sides. Squares of amber light blinked through the blizzard from behind privet hedges. The bus slewed from side to side.
Heart in her mouth, Thelma thought about getting off then and there and walking up the hill, but they were still some way from the top. Her shoes, especially her heels, wouldn’t cope with ice. Why hadn’t she got out her winter boots? The answer was obvious; she’d been so wrapped up in getting ready for George coming home, nothing else had mattered. Everything about today revolved around her son. He’d promised to be home for a few months – perhaps even long enough to take part in the celebrations for the new king.
The bus continued its sluggish passage. The gears of the bus gave one last wrenching grind before it came to a shuddering halt, sliding slightly backwards until a back wheel lodged against the kerb.
A bigger shout drowned the others: ‘Let me through. Move along now. Let me through.’
Nudging the square bulk of his ticket machine into the ribs of those standing, the bus conductor pushed forward. He made his way from the rear platform of the bus to the very front, where he spoke with the driver through a sliding hatch.
Whatever was said, the two men could be seen shaking their heads in abject despair. Even before he’d turned round to make an announcement, people were up from their seats, pushing their way through to the rear platform. Those up top were spilling down the stairs and out onto the platform, swinging on the chromium bar better to support them as they alighted into the snow.
The bus conductor, speaking to a smaller audience now, only confirmed what they already knew. ‘Sorry, everybody. But the gearbox ’as gone. It strained its ’eart out getting up this ’ill. This bus ain’t going anywhere. You’ll ’ave to get off and walk.’
‘But we’ve paid for our tickets,’ cried one indignant woman in a tweed coat, her headscarf clamped to her head with wetness.
‘Nothin’ I can do about that, love. It’s the weather.’
Thelma sighed. Like everyone else, she made her way to the rear of the bus, peeved, angry and worried. From the moment she’d got George’s letter before Christmas, she’d planned how she would greet her son. And now this. The bloody weather! This should have been such a perfect day. Now it was ruined. She’d be late home.
People peeled off, disappearing into the darkness. The bus that had been full at the beginning of her journey was now empty.
Being careful not to slip, she stepped gingerly down from the bus.
‘Take me ’and, my love.’
She took the hand that was offered, felt the softness of a worn leather glove. He had a slight Welsh accent and smelled of tobacco – not fresh tobacco but a dusty febrile smell that permeated his clothes. As she stepped down, the twelve inches between the sloping bus platform icy flakes hit her in the face.
She would have slipped if she hadn’t still been holding the helping hand.
‘Ta,’ she said.
‘Glad to ’ave been of service, my love. Far to go, my love?’
My love. Not me love as a native Bristolian would say.
‘Yes. Too bloody far,’ she muttered through clenched teeth.
‘Hold on to me. I’m going as far as the top of the hill.’
The brim of a dark-coloured trilby hat hid his face and Thelma had only time for a quick glance. Her own face was bent into the wind, her steps cautious through the deepening snow. She had no option but to cling to his arm.
Together, her slipping and sliding and leaning on him, they staggered up the hill. Lights still shining from its downstairs windows, the bus was soon behind them. Those that had alighted had dispersed in the direction of their homes, where a warm fire and hot meal awaited them.
