Shameful Secrets on Coronation Close, page 4
Glyn Vale was left behind, but the hill continued up Donegal Road. It wouldn’t flatten until they got to the top.
Street lights still working did little to illuminate the hazardous ground beneath her feet. At one point, there were none. She presumed the storm had put them out.
His arm, linked with hers, gripped her more tightly. A hand clenched hers. ‘No need to worry. We’re nearly there.’
She didn’t know what he meant by nearly there. They hadn’t yet reached the end of Donegal Road, though the hill had flattened. She recalled a piece of green grass and trees where a small cul-de-sac broached the unending row of brick semi-detached houses.
‘Nearly there, my love,’ he said again.
Was it the wind or had his voice changed to something less kind; more guttural?
Because of the snow and the darkness of this patch, the distance between them and the houses of the cul-de-sac, it wasn’t possible to discern any lights falling from behind curtained windows.
She sensed his steps slowing, his arm clenching hers more tightly to his side.
By rights, they should have been walking straight on by, past the green and the lights of houses blinking through the trees. That’s if he was going in the same direction as she was.
His steps veered and, unable to escape his grasp, her feet went with him. Panic suddenly gripped her.
‘We’re going off course.’
‘We’re going where I want to go, my love. It’s a chilly night and we could both do with warming up, couldn’t we now.’
Swiftly, without him giving her time to protest, she found herself being swung round, then bundled towards the trees.
‘Slut. Tart.’ His voice was a growl now, his grip as hard as iron.
Her scream was lost on the wind and her struggling was futile. He pulled her onto the green, her feet dragging through mulched leaves, sodden snow and frozen mud.
She had no doubt what was about to happen – though by God she would do everything in her power to prevent it. She had to. George was waiting for her. Her boy was home.
‘My son’s waiting for me. Let me go.’
A heavy slap sent her head bending sideways. She cried out, begged him to stop, shouted at him to stop, but refrained from pleading.
The full force of his superior strength came into play, knocking her backwards. One shoe flew from her foot as he dragged her backwards until finally he slammed her against the trunk of a tree. Bang went the back of her head against it, the roughness of the bark scratching through her hair. The world, already blurred with swirling flakes, turned darker, like looking through the bottom of a glass.
Reeling from the blow, she saw neither his face nor the details of his clothes as he fumbled with his trousers, ripped aside the crotch of her knickers and forced himself into her.
When she found her fists released, she pummelled at his chest. Another slap sent her head reeling.
Her legs were wide and her insides felt as though they were being torn in half. His chest slammed against hers so heavily that she could barely breathe, the smell of him, the weight of him smothering her. His body flexed as he thrust determinedly into her, giving her no choice, merely intent on satisfying his own base pleasure.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Warmer now, ain’t we.’
She didn’t know how she did it, but from somewhere she had the guts and energy to spit into his face.
‘Bitch!’
His hands encircled her neck. At first, she was choking, then everything went black.
Flakes of snow falling on her face brought Thelma round. Gasping for air, she tasted them in her mouth, gulped and swallowed them down.
Her first thought was for her girls and whether they’d been able to make George welcome and lay the table without her. Of course they had: the sandwiches, the high tea, the blancmange, the cake.
She turned over and got onto her knees. With the help of the rough bark of the tree trunk, she managed to rise slowly but surely to her feet.
Her throat was sore. Her neck was sore, but nothing compared to the pain she felt between her legs and in her stomach.
You mustn’t cry. You mustn’t cry. Nothing must ruin George’s homecoming. She had endured a woman’s worse nightmare, but it was over. She refused to be intimidated or let it ruin the rest of the evening.
For a few minutes, she leaned her back against the tree until her head had stopped spinning.
Once her heartbeat had settled and her vision was less blurred, she adjusted her underwear as best she could. Once satisfied that she was halfway respectable, she hunted for her missing shoe, grubbing in the snow with ice-cold fingers.
No matter how much she rummaged around in snow and damp ground, her shoe was lost and she was desperate to get home. George would be waiting, a fact of far more importance than finding a shoe.
The night was dark, but the snow was beginning to ease off. She knew where she was – that half-circle of grass and trees at the top of Donegal Road.
Limping badly due to her missing shoe, she swallowed her disgust and set off for home. Although her head ached and she felt sick inside, she resolved that she wouldn’t let it ruin the evening she’d planned.
Her darling George would be waiting for her and she’d let nothing ruin that.
But how would she explain her missing shoe, the mark on her face, her laddered stockings?
‘I slipped.’
She said it to the wind, the snow and the deep black night.
‘I slipped.’
It was all she could say, not much of an excuse, but believable enough. The truth would lie with her, buried in a dark recess of her mind, never to resurface.
4
The snow of early January had melted away. The hedges dripped with water, but by the end of February, the air was warmer. It was too early in the year for blue skies and the sun was a watery presence behind banks of silver-grey clouds.
The big event of mid-February had been a pancake race around the entire length of Coronation Close. The kids of the close had taken part and, despite a few tossed pancakes landing in the dirt, picked them up and ate them anyway.
The milkman and baker called every day. The coalman less frequently but enough to keep the living-room fire grates topped up. Norman Grimsby, the knife grinder, came around periodically on his tricycle, an intriguing contraption designed for the work he did. His grindstone was perched between the handlebars and the front wheel. The sound of it going round was enough to put everyone’s teeth on edge. All the same, keen for the chance to chat, the women stayed there whilst the wheel turned and sharpened their kitchen knives, scissors and household tools.
Carrying a carving knife and three pairs of his mother’s dressmaking and kitchen scissors, George Dawson, Thelma’s son joined them.
‘Good morning, ladies. Bit nippy, ain’t it.’
George had a cheeky-chappie expression, an amiable manner and was the husband most would choose for their daughter – once he was in settling-down mode that was.
Since his return home in January, he appeared to be making up for lost time, catching up with old pals and burning the midnight oil when he could. It was known that he spent a good deal of his time round at the Venture Inn with his mates or out at a dance hall.
‘Enjoying bein’ ’ome with yer mother then,’ quipped Maude from number seven, winking at the other women.
‘There’s no woman like me mother.’ George’s response was accompanied with a salacious wink of his own.
The women cackled.
Maude chewed her gums before saying, ‘Plenty to compare ’er with from what I’ve ’eard.’
More chuckles ensued, along with a knowing nudging of elbows.
‘I bet your mother is spoiling you rotten,’ remarked Jenny.
‘She is,’ he replied with a cheeky grin. ‘I daren’t shove off too quickly. She might tie me to a chair if it looked likely. Got to fatten me up first before I leave for the seven seas, that’s what she reckons anyway.’
‘Be nice if you were here for the street party in May. She’ll be disappointed if you ain’t,’ said Maude as she handed over sixpence to the knife grinder and took ownership of her carving knife, a chisel and a pair of garden shears.
George shook his head. ‘I doubt I’ll be here for that, though I am thinking of leaving the Merchant Navy and joining the Royal Navy when I comes back on me next leave.’
‘What about yer mother?’ asked Cath. ‘What did she think of that?’
‘Me joining the Royal Navy? The minute I said it she was dusting off the picture of the king and queen and telling them all about it. Dead excited she was.’
Remarks were made about how Thelma was a fervent royalist. They all agreed that she’d be pleased if he did.
‘I would ’ave thought one boat was no different than another,’ Cath remarked.
George chortled as he gathered up the newly sharpened items. ‘There’s only so many banana boats a bloke can stand.’
The women laughed before all eyes went back to Norman Grimsby, pedalling for all he was worth and setting the grindstone spinning again.
Once all his sharpening was done, George bid a cheery goodbye.
‘He’s a nice lad,’ said Maude.
‘The apple of Thelma’s eyes,’ agreed Jenny.
‘Shame she’s neglecting ’er friends,’ said a petulant Cath.
Jenny thought the comment unfair and said so.
‘It’s understandable whilst George is home. She hasn’t seen him for ages. He’s her only son. We’ll see more of her once he’s gone back to sea.’
‘Are you all right, Mrs Dawson?’
Mrs Apsley had come upon Thelma quietly. She had a soft way of walking, the tips of her heels barely making a sound. Because of that she was like a wraith appearing without warning. Not exactly creeping up, but soft-footed, gliding around the store like a ship on a calm and sun-kissed sea.
Taken by surprise, Thelma started but recovered swiftly. She beamed at her. ‘I’m quite fine. It’s just been a bit of a strain with George being at home, though I’m loving it.’
Mrs Apsley persisted. Thelma was her best sales assistant, always engaged with her job and the customers she served so well. ‘You were just looking a bit distracted. Not that I have any criticism of your work ethic. You’re an ideal sales assistant – senior sales assistant.’ She smiled reassuringly, though a slight furrow remained on her forehead.
Referring to her as a senior sales assistant was indeed an accolade to the esteem in which Mrs Apsley held her. Thelma was glad of that. Her job meant a lot to her, almost as much, though not quite, as did George and her children.
‘I’ve had a phone call from a Lady Grovesner. She intends calling in to look at some peignoirs, silk and cotton. Apparently she’s off on the Queen Mary to New York and needs some extra items for the voyage.’
Thelma smiled and said she would do all she could to help her ladyship choose.
Mrs Apsley peered through the glass top of the counter to where silky underwear was displayed in shallow wooden drawers. ‘Perhaps you might also prepare our very best camiknickers for her consideration. Perhaps rearrange the drawers so the most expensive are at the top.’
Thelma said she would do so.
After Mrs Apsley had moved away, Thelma took out the drawer beneath the glass-topped counter that contained silk camiknickers. Cream, white, salmon pink and the softest shade of mint green. How beautiful they were and she wished she could afford them. She could do with some new ones herself, but the price of these was way beyond her means. Looking smart for work was imperative, but sometimes, just sometimes, she wished she could afford what Bertrams customers could afford.
A pang of remorse hit her as she thought about the torn pair she’d thrown into the rag bag. Normally, she would have mended them, embroidered pretty flowers over holes or sewn on new buttons or threaded elastic into the waistband if needed. The pair she’d thrown into the bin had been those she’d been wearing on the night of the snowstorm. The connection between them and that terrible night was too painful. Lovely as they’d been – made from an old silk shawl – she’d confined them to the bin. Once the bruise on her face had vanished, she’d put the memory behind her. She didn’t know his name, just his smell, so going to the police was out of the question. They’d laugh in her face, even insinuate she must have led him on, taking the arm of a complete stranger.
Thelma had never been a willing victim and she refused to be now. She’d explained to George that being late for his homecoming and the bruising on her face was because she’d slipped on a patch of ice.
‘Nearly knocked me out it did.’
To her ears it sounded a poor excuse. What had happened could not be undone, so all she could do was get on with life. As for her missing shoe that George had offered to look for, she didn’t want that back either. The odd one she’d had left was also consigned to the dustbin. It turned out that locking it from her mind would not be enough. By the end of January, she knew that it wasn’t only a shoe missing. Her monthly periods had always been on time. This month they were absent. A few days late perhaps? What to do about it? Should she wait until the next one – just to make sure? Or set the wheels in motion to do something?
At least her job kept her mind off things. She looked around the store, smiled at Mr Bertram as he strolled past, hands behind his back as he inspected his domain. He stopped to have a word with Mrs Apsley.
Pretending to tidy the drawer of pretty underwear, she dipped down slightly to return the drawer to its rightful place. She often paid great attention to the clothes Bertrams sold. Nobody queried why she examined them in such minute detail. They could not guess that she copied them, cut them into the same shapes, sewed them by hand late at night.
The details of those pretty silks was imprinted in her mind. Scraps of silk cut from other garments were stored in an ottoman at the foot of her bed. She’d make herself some more underwear, make some for the girls too, make anything and everything, occupy herself so she wouldn’t think of that terrible night that might have changed her life forever. If she let it. If she didn’t do something about it.
It was another icy day. To Thelma’s surprise, Bert was outside Bertrams waiting for her in his little Ford car, a boxy shape on wheels.
‘Bert. What are you doing here?’
‘It’s a bit icy. I didn’t want you slipping and hurting yourself again.’
Touched by his consideration and verging on tearful, she slid into the front seat. ‘What a lovely surprise. And you coming out in this cold.’ She leaned across and kissed his cheek.
A glow of appreciation suffused his face. ‘Worth it just for that.’
She thought the same. He wasn’t to know that he’d lifted her spirits, and never ever would he know what had happened. Sometimes she loved him for his innocence. Sometimes she just loved him.
She could have done without Cath calling in the minute she saw she was home.
‘I saw you get out of Bert’s car. Bill’s doing some overtime, so I thought I’d pop in. Did he pick you up straight from work?’
There was an edge to the way she said it, but Thelma was in no mood to investigate.
‘Yes. He did. And if you don’t mind I’m a bit tired…’
‘Bill thought he saw ’im the other night after he left ’ere.’
‘On his way home. He always likes to leave by ten.’
There was something shifty about Cath’s look, and even though she was doing her best to shepherd her to the door, Thelma couldn’t help noticing.
‘Bill saw ’im round at them old barns at Inns Court that’s been turned into workshops and garages. Or thought he did…’
‘It couldn’t have been him. His mother likes him home.’
‘A grown man like ’im!’
Too tired and annoyed to argue, Thelma grabbed her arm and hustled her out of the door. ‘Leave Bert be, Cath, and get on home. I’m away to my supper and my bed.’
Once she’d gone, Thelma leaned her head against the closed door and shut her eyes. She couldn’t quite believe that Bill had been hanging around at the garages. It just didn’t seem like him, but Cath being Cath it might very well be a fib. Over time, she’d got used to Cath’s possessive jealousy. This was what this was, she told herself. Just another example of how mischievous she could be.
5
March was blustery and sent daffodils dancing in the wind.
Saturday afternoon was the time when the women involved in the arrangements for the coronation gathered around Thelma Dawson’s dining table.
Red, white and blue ribbons were draped over the wall-mounted photograph of the new king, his wife and the little princesses. It was a bit premature, but Thelma liked to think ahead. Even if the coronation wasn’t until May, she stressed to anyone that would listen that they should be well prepared so everything ran smoothly.
Standing at opposite ends of the room, Jenny and Cath were winding up lengths of bunting made from scraps of red, white and blue cloth. Bill had brought the string home from work, where it had been used to tie up great bundles of wood for making into pulp and thus for cardboard.
So far they’d wound up eight bundles and there were still lots to come.
‘I should think we’ve got enough to stretch across Melvin Square and Filwood Broadway, let alone Coronation Close,’ Jenny remarked.
‘Here’s another,’ said Cath, pulling out another skein of string.
‘Put that down for now. Tea and biscuits first.’
Over tea, Jenny asked Thelma when George was off back to sea.
The corners of Thelma’s lips turned downwards. ‘I'm trying not to think about it.’
Jenny expressed her sympathy. ‘You’ll miss him.’
‘That I will. Where would we be without our family? Mind you, I certainly wouldn’t want any more, though thankfully my days of giving birth are long over. Still,’ she said with a nervous laugh, ‘you can never tell can you?’
