Shameful Secrets on Coronation Close, page 6
After draining his cup, Charlie reached for his overcoat, remarking as he did so how warm it felt. Leaving it gaping open, hat in hand, dark blond hair gleaming, he smiled at her before heading for the door.
‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow then. Six o’clock.’
‘Yes. Six o’clock.’
The sight of a car in the street had drawn a few neighbours out to their front gates. Nods of interest were shared. Jenny guessed a few more pairs of eyes were watching from behind their front windows.
A group of pre-school age children traced sticky fingers along the matt black car, eyes wide with fascination. It wasn’t often a car entered the street, so it always attracted curiosity. A van not so much, but a vehicle purely for the use of passengers was a rarity.
Wrapping her cardigan tightly around herself, she watched until it was gone, ignored the questioning looks that fell her way and shut the front door. Once it was shut, she leaned against it, hand on heart, feeling it racing.
It was the first time she’d admitted to herself that she was missing some aspects of a man. As her pulse slowed, she told herself firmly that he had only come here to tell her about Ruth. He hadn’t come to see her. Not really. She was far below him on the social scale. Charlie Talbot would never be part of her life. Dreaming of him was one thing. The reality was quite another.
Any thoughts about him were tempered by her concern for dear Ruth. Tomorrow she would find out just how ill she was.
6
Seeing as Coronation Close was a cul-de-sac it was easy for the residents to keep an eye on the comings and goings. Some kept a closer eye than others. Dorothy Partridge was one of those neighbours hiding behind her living-room curtains watching what was going on with narrowed eyes and malicious intent.
‘Her next door just had a man visitor. She invited him in.’
Harry, who to the world outside number one Coronation Close was known as Harriet, sighed deeply into the inner pages of his newspaper.
‘She has every right to invite him in. He’s a visitor. Visitors usually are invited in.’
Dorothy scowled and sniffed. Her face resembled a withered crab apple when she did that, though God knows, Harry wouldn’t dare say so. His shoulders tensed as he waited to hear what was coming next.
‘He’s a good-looking man.’
‘But not in there long. It’s likely therefore that he’s a friend or relative.’
‘I don’t know that she’s got any relatives.’
‘How do you know that?’
Dorothy straightened the curtain and turned to face him. ‘Her husband told me that they were both orphans, that all they had was each other. Such an upright gentleman and we had so much in common.’
Harry looked up from his newspaper, frowning. ‘Like what?’
‘He thinks this country is going to the dogs. We agreed that something must be done. Did you see him in his black uniform? He’s a friend of that Sir Oswald Mosley.’
Harry shook his head in despair. ‘Dorothy, you don’t know what you’re talking about. That man Mosley and his like are going to lead to trouble. You mark my words. Don’t let a smart uniform and military bearing influence your opinions. Anyway, he’s not with them any more, not the Blackshirts that is. I hear he’s joined the army.’
‘And a fine soldier he’ll make,’ Dorothy declared. ‘Fine pair of shoulders and strong views. He’ll end up an officer. A commander of men. He won’t run.’
Her eyes met his accusingly. Not for the first time, Harry felt diminished by the accusation in her steely gaze.
Dorothy’s jaw was set and her thin arms were folded over her narrow chest. Insinuation glittered in her eyes.
‘I didn’t run,’ he said, his voice quivering with emotion.
‘No. You fell apart.’
Her manner was scathing. Didn’t she realise how much her words hurt? Didn’t she realise that he lived with that terrible past and his desertion each and every day?
He got to his feet and headed upstairs.
‘If it wasn’t for me you’d be in prison, Corporal Harry Partridge.’
Her sharp words carried up the stairs behind him. Closing the bedroom door shut her out, though not the memories. Nothing could ever shut those out.
Tears stinging his eyes, he looked out of the bedroom window. Row after row of gardens stretched along the back of the houses, curving out of sight at the far end of the close. Down in their own garden, clumps of snowdrops were still in flower, though it seemed as though the rain was beating both them and the daffodils back into the mud.
Looking at that mud brought back fragments of memories that still haunted him. Broken men, bits of bodies, flesh and mud churning together. The sky lighting up with flashes of artillery fire, fountains of earth spouting upwards. The air had stunk of cordite and blood. The noise had been deafening. Some got used to it, but he never had and there’d been many more like him.
In the last battle he’d endured, the torso of his best mate had landed on his shoulders. Something inside him had broken.
The night had continued to thunder behind him as he’d headed away, keeping low, winding his way over mud and between craters, making to where the bare branches of denuded trees scratched the sky, his eyes wet with tears, his chest heaving with sobs.
Somehow, ragged in stolen clothes, silent and alone, he’d got away. Somehow, with the help of uncommonly sympathetic fishermen, he’d found himself back in England. Dorothy, the wife he’d married only a year before, had almost fainted at the sight of him. After living like a tramp, sleeping rough, stealing food where he could, he’d arrived in the dead of night, gaunt-faced and scrawny. For the first time in an age, he had slept in a bed, been nursed back to physical health. Not that the experience was entirely behind him. The nightmares robbed him of sleep. There were repercussions, echoes of what he had been through. He started at the sudden banging of a door, the shouts of costermongers in St Nicholas Market.
He was in hiding, had been since that dreadful war and would be, he thought, forever. The unluckier ones, those who’d been caught, had been shot. Some had been imprisoned. Some had committed suicide rather than go back.
Luck had been on his side. Nobody came to find him, a deserter who had fled the trenches, his mind deranged, his whole body shaking as it still did on occasion.
‘You’re not going back,’ Dorothy had proclaimed.
‘They’ll come for me.’
‘You’re not going back!’
Claiming mental disorder was no excuse – cowardice, they called it. According to the high command and those who had not been there, every soldier should be willing to die for his country no matter the cost.
Although Dorothy had been one of those handing out white feathers to those who seemed not to have joined up, she made an exception for her husband. It was her idea that he should dress as a woman. ‘You’re my sister Harriet Osborne.’
He’d been in no fit state to think it over or protest. In meek silence, he had become Harriet Osborne and, as such, had felt safe. The fear of the authorities finding out had never quite gone away. A policeman had once come to the door back in the old place in the city centre. Dorothy had answered the door whilst Harry had lingered in the background. The policeman had handed her a telegram. It was black bordered. Neither of them needed to ask what it was. Harry Partridge was dead. The door was shut on both the policeman and the outside world.
‘They must have found my identity tag,’ Harry had explained.
‘But no body,’ said Dorothy in disbelief, the telegram screwed up in her hand.
‘No. No body.’
He tried to explain to her that there weren’t always bodies, just an identity tag floating in a soup of blood and mud.
Dorothy had listened to him in shocked silence. ‘It’s unchristian,’ she'd said at last.
Following a frank discussion, they had decided that for the foreseeable future Harry would live as Harriet.
Their decision proved a good one. As two sisters, they were given a council house, plus Dorothy had received a war widows pension. It could be said that Dorothy was entitled to one. Harry, as Harriet, enrolled anyway and seeing as there were thousands of widows, mistakes were made. Harriet Osborne had been listed as a widow and also received a pension. They could live their lives free of war – if Harry continued to pass himself off as a woman.
Rods of rain battered the window. His gaze strayed from the muddy garden of number one to next door at number two. Mrs Crawford was dressed in a wet-weather cape of the sort they’d worn on the battlefield and digging up potatoes – the first of the year, no doubt.
He admired her pluck, husband in the army and leaving her to survive as best she could. There was something about her that made him think of Dorothy before she’d been changed by their experiences. She hadn’t always been so intolerant of others. He knew what was behind it, of course. The war had spoilt everything and in a way she blamed him for not being brave enough, not being soldierly enough. At the same time, she protected him. Or was it more than protection? Was it a form of control?
The thought disturbed him and it wasn’t that easy to push it away, but away it must go. Best think of the simple things of life. He rubbed at the bristles on his face. He needed a shave, a small matter, but enough to help him face another day.
7
Accompanied by a cloud of expensive scent, a woman wearing a mink coat sprinkled with raindrops approached Thelma’s counter. A man followed her – a young, well-dressed man at least twenty years her junior.
Thelma recognised the woman who’d bought the kid gloves some weeks ago. Mrs Justin-Cooper had opened a personal account and was here yet again.
She pasted on her welcoming smile. ‘Mrs Justin-Cooper. How nice to see you again.’ It paid to remember a customer’s name. They appreciated it and remembered those staff that did and made a beeline for them when they entered the shop. Sometimes they even asked for a favourite sales assistant by name. Thelma hoped this would happen.
Red lips smiled through a black lace veil. ‘Thank you, though, on this occasion, I’m not here to purchase something for myself. My nephew here wishes to buy a present for his fiancée.’
Thelma turned to the handsome young man. ‘Good morning, sir. Might I ask if you have anything in particular in mind, or would you like me to suggest something your fiancée can’t fail to fall in love with?’
His aristocratic looks almost took her breath away. Although younger, he reminded her of the playboy prince who had denounced the throne. His hair was dark blond, slightly waved and silky and his eyes were a stunning cornflower blue. His smile was enough to take the breath away of the most matronly of women. It certainly took hers away and she was no spinster.
He placed his handsome and very expensive trilby hat on the counter, his hands, nails manicured to perfection, either side of it. Perfect white teeth flashed when he smiled. ‘I’m not sure. My ideas don’t go far beyond a box of lace handkerchiefs or a silk scarf.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Not very imaginative of me, I know. What would you suggest?’
Ideas flashed through her mind, some of which had to be reined in. Bertrams had some lovely lingerie in stock, but should a fiancé be giving such intimate items before marriage?
She asked if sir knew what size she was?
‘Slender but shapely,’ he replied.
Was it her imagination or was that a blush on the slender, shapely Mrs Justin-Cooper? Ah, she thought. So that was their game. Too old to be his fiancée of course, but that was their business. Although Thelma surmised this man as a bit of a cad, she had a living to earn and part of her wage was based on commission.
‘I think I’ve got just the thing.’ Smiling, she turned behind her to the glass-fronted, beech wood framed shelves where the most expensive silk items were kept. She brought out a mint-green nightdress so pale it shimmered almost silver, and so fine that she could see her hand through it. It was far from being the most revealing in their collection, but at the same time was not matronly. The shoulder straps were formed from wide bands of silk of the same colour as the main body of the garment and banded with lace. More lace trimmed the ankle-length hem.
‘So beautiful,’ said Mrs Justin-Cooper, her voice barely more than a whisper. The eyes behind the veil eyed the garment with what Thelma could only describe as reverence. ‘It’s so fine, and the colour…’ Another expressive sigh escaped the red lips. She turned to the young man she’d introduced as her nephew, her head held coquettishly to one side. ‘What do you think, my darling boy?’
‘I’m no expert. I think it’s very becoming, but quite frankly I don’t feel my opinion would be that reliable.’ He looked first at Mrs Justin-Cooper and then at Thelma. ‘What do you two ladies think?’
‘Absolutely superb, darling. Absolutely superb. So silky. So soft.’ Mrs Justin-Cooper ran her fingers over the soft silk. ‘No woman could resist it. No man either,’ she murmured, the blush returning to her cheeks.
Thelma kept her fixed smile. ‘Would the colour match your fiancée’s complexion and hair colour?’ The nightdress was very expensive – five guineas in fact. A nice commission for her if he bought it.
‘Would you wear it?’ He directed his question at Thelma.
‘I would love it,’ returned Thelma without embarrassment. And so would Bert, she thought to herself – if he ever got the chance. But Bert was conservative in his views; nothing untoward should happen until the wedding night. That was his view. Whether they ever got round to marrying was another matter entirely and the reluctance was hers. Once her two young daughters were grown, she might consider remarrying. As for George, well, he was a young man now, though goodness knew she wished he wasn’t. In her mind he was still her little boy.
The young man smacked the counter, startling her from her musings. ‘Then I’ll take it.’
‘You can put it on my bill,’ said Mrs Justin-Cooper, her eyes unusually bright at the prospect of him doing so, a secretive smug smile on her lips.
‘No need. Open an account in my name. No doubt I’ll be buying more for her trousseau – if she’ll allow me to.’
Thelma couldn’t be sure, but thought she saw a secretive look flash between Mrs Justin-Cooper and her companion. Dismissing what she was thinking to concentrate on the bill, she asked for the young man’s name.
‘Charles George Talbot.’
Thelma hesitated making the entry for the briefest of moments. Didn’t she know that name? As she scribbled it hastily onto the note for passing to the accounts register, it hit her. Jenny had mentioned meeting up with him, how he was such a straight and upright man who had helped her friends, helped her too. Just recently, he’d fetched her in his motorcar so they could visit those old friends in hospital. She’d also gone for a drink with him afterwards and told Thelma all about it, how he made her feel, how she had held back despite her inclination to fall into his arms and lie with him forever.
Jenny adored him and, with her husband away, one thing could easily lead to another. Thelma wouldn’t blame her. She’d met Jenny’s husband, Roy, and hadn’t thought much of him. A bully. A tyrant. Too self-assured for his own good. However, she felt that Jenny was too keen on this man. Oh yes, he was handsome and likeable; definitely came across as the answer to a woman’s prayer. But there was also something elusive about him, even a bit too carefree and irresponsible. Not that what she said would have much impact on Jenny’s feelings for him. Jenny was a dear friend, but slightly flawed. She asked herself what was Jenny looking for in a man? She reasoned that she was constantly seeking affection and something better than she had. Not always a good idea, Thelma thought. An obsessive need for affection could cause Jenny great pain. She herself had had plenty of that in her time.
‘There you are, sir.’ Thelma smiled as she handed Charlie Talbot the shiny black carrier bag emblazoned with the name Bertrams.
He touched the brim of his hat when he thanked her. Mrs Justin-Cooper merely smiled, more so for him than for Thelma.
He walked out with his arm around the woman who’d professed to be his aunt, though hardly as a means of assistance to an elderly woman. Mrs Justin-Cooper was older than him but not elderly. Neither was she in need of assistance. His action was one of affection. The nightdress was for her, Thelma decided. A gift from a young lover to his older mistress.
‘Another satisfied customer, Mrs Dawson?’
Mrs Apsley’s voice cut into her thoughts.
‘Yes. The gentleman opened an account. He bought one of our Eleganza nightdresses, the sort a bride wears on a honeymoon. He bought it for his fiancée – so he said.’
They exchanged a knowing look. Sales assistants were not fools and could tell someone’s status and when they were telling little white lies – like now.
‘I see.’ Mrs Apsley’s comment was clipped, but said it all. Both her eyes and Thelma’s followed the closing of the shop door behind the pair. ‘I take it he introduced the lady with him as his aunt.’
Thelma smiled. ‘Not quite. She introduced him as her nephew. How did you know that?’
Mrs Apsley smiled. ‘Experience, my dear. Put it down to experience.’
Thelma had her own problems. She’d been attacked in January and it was now March and still her monthlies had not yet appeared. Although concerned for herself, she had enough compassion left over to be concerned for her friend. Charlie Talbot, it seemed, was not quite all that Jenny thought him to be.
Should she tell her what she suspected, or let sleeping dogs lie? And what exactly was it that she suspected? That Charlie Talbot really was engaged to be married or that he had a middle-aged mistress? Either way, Jenny would be devastated.
For the fourth time that day, she asked Mrs Apsley for permission to go to the toilets.
‘I’ve got a bit of a stomach upset.’
