Shameful Secrets on Coronation Close, page 7
‘Something you ate?’ asked Mrs Apsley.
‘I think so.’
The cottage pie she’d had the night before had been delicious and not affected her stomach at all. Her reason was the same she’d had for the last month or so, to check to see if ‘her friend’ had arrived. Yet again, she was disappointed.
She’d heard it was normal for her monthlies to become more sporadic as she approached the ‘change’, though approaching forty didn’t seem such a great age. Getting older and the midlife changes happening in her body did reassure her to some extent, but a nagging doubt remained.
8
Monday morning and yet again Jenny was having trouble with the gas jet beneath the boiler. For the fourth time that morning, she turned on the tap and then touched the circle of gas jets with a lighted match.
Cath interrupted her concentration, barging through the back door and asking if she knew there was an ambulance outside next door.
‘Looks as though Mrs Partridge has had a nasty turn. When we asked, just as good neighbours what was wrong, ’er sister said she ’ad a weak heart and ’ad a funny turn.’
‘Poor woman,’ said Jenny, still facing the boiler. ‘Was there anything else you wanted?’ She sensed that there was. Cath was always running out of things.
‘I’ve run out of sugar. Have you got a cup of sugar I can borrow?’
Setting the matches to one side, Jenny got to her feet . From a shelf in the larder, she took a stone jar containing sugar, scooped some out into an old cracked cup and passed it to Cath.
Cath uttered ‘thank you’ as she took it from her, cradling it with both hands. ‘I’ll pay you back later.’
‘That’s fine. Now to light this blessed boiler,’ she replied, turning back to the wretched zinc boiler. ‘I’ve got a load of washing to do.’
‘I gets trouble lighting that thing too,’ said Cath, nodding at the ugly grey tub. ‘I hear some woman up in Leinster Avenue got ’er ’air blown off by one. It blew up. Just blew up. The ’ouse was badly damaged.’
‘That’s dreadful.’
‘The back window was blown out too. You can’t muck around with gas, so my Bill says. He reckons the council needs to check them a bit more regularly. He cleans our jets out ’imself and checks the tap turns off properly. Shall I get ’im to do yours?’
Jenny thought back to when Charlie had cleaned out the jets. ‘Don’t worry him about that. I usually open the window if the smell of gas lingers.’
‘So do I, but you can’t be too careful – that’s what my Bill says.’
She finally agreed with Cath that it would be useful if he took a look. ‘If he doesn’t mind, that is.’
‘Of course not.’ Cath paused by the back door. ‘You off out with that bloke in the car later?’
Jenny had suspected the question would be asked. Curtains had twitched the moment Charlie’s car entered the street. His frequent visits would be noted and remarked on, though rarely within her earshot. Tonight would be the fourth time she was out with him. She’d given up suggesting she get the bus to the hospital. Charlie insisted he would take her and it had become their habit after that to go for a drink together. As usual, she was looking forward to it.
She guessed that Cath had expected to be invited to stay for a cuppa, but Jenny wanted to get the laundry out on the line before the girls came home from school at midday and a second load washed and dried before four o’clock at the end of the school day. That would then give her enough time to get ready to go out with Charlie.
Her heart raced at the thought of him, that floppy dark blond hair, those twinkling eyes, the way he pronounced words, as though they were toffee and flavoursome on his tongue.
Such silly thoughts, she told herself, shaking her head as she sorted out whites from coloureds.
The kitchen smelled slightly of gas, following so many attempts to light it. Thinking of seeing Charlie again superseded any idea of getting Billy Lockhart to service the jet. It could wait.
Tonight she was going out to see her dear friend Ruth again. On each visit, she entered the hospital side entrance with dread, hoping against hope that Ruth was still there, barely hanging onto life as resolutely as she always had.
Both Ruth and Isaac had been her only genuine friends at a time when she was living in dire circumstances, unhappy with her life and her marriage. Regardless of being out with Charlie afterwards, she owed Ruth those visits and only hoped the day was long off when she wouldn’t be around any longer.
Bubble and squeak topped with an egg was the usual Monday midday meal when the girls came home from school. Slicing every sliver of meat from the bone, she’d made enough mince from the Sunday roast to make pasties. The bones and what remained of the meat clinging to them would make stew for Wednesday. Their weekly menu stayed very much the same from week to week. Not one scrap of food was wasted. Like everyone else, Jenny made the Sunday joint and leftover vegetables last as long as possible.
An afternoon of more laundry followed, until the girls came home from school at around four thirty.
After the girls had wolfed down their evening meal, they raced outside. Jenny shouted after them to be in by nine o’clock at the latest. ‘I’ll be home by then.’
The kids in the close played beneath the street lights until late. There was no traffic, no passers-by except those who lived there coming home from work or going for a drink at the pub.
It was not the most clement of nights. The rains of February had been replaced by the blustery winds of March. Jenny had to hold onto her hat as she ran to the car.
‘In like a lion,’ she said laughingly as she slid onto the warm leather seat beside him. ‘Hopefully it will go out like a lamb.’
Charlie smiled. ‘March brings breezes loud and shrill, stirs the dancing daffodil.’
‘April soon.’
‘Something about showers and gillyflowers – whatever they are.’
‘Primroses and daisies.’ They laughed and recited more rhymes recalled from childhood as the car left the close and made its way from the estate and into East Street, Bedminster. He asked her how her family was. She told him the children were fine but refrained from bringing up Roy. Every so often she caught him glancing at her, mainly when he asked how she was settling in the house and was she happy. She said that she was especially sitting here next to him in the car.
He hesitated to say anything when she asked him about his family.
‘We don’t get on that well,’ he said finally. ‘They disagreed with my politics, especially my father.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Cut me off without a penny, but there you are. My beliefs matter more than money. Anyway, I get by.’ He paused as though deciding whether he should tell her more. ‘I get by – I even get paid for issuing pamphlets and such like.’
Their conversation remained relatively light. She fancied that he was reluctant for any serious probing. They fell into talking about her neighbours, those she liked and those went out of their way to be disliked – Dorothy Partridge dominated the latter category, of course.
Their destination was reached too early as far as Jenny was concerned. As usual, Jenny was full of apprehension as they passed beneath the grim archway and into the hospital.
Her apprehension reduced when nobody came to tell them not to go in, that it was too late, that Ruth was no more.
As they approached the ward and nobody accosted them, Jenny felt her shoulders relax, her handbag less tightly gripped against her stomach.
A vase of daffodils on a table in the ward glowed in sunny splendour.
Before going any further, a small stout figure stepped into their paths.
All the apprehension Jenny had thought discarded came back to stiffen her shoulders and feel a deep sickness in her stomach.
‘Ah. Sister,’ said Charlie, his trilby held in both hands. ‘We’re here to see Mrs Jacobs.’
Although small in stature, the ward sister was large in superiority. She drew herself up, jutted her chin and told them they could not proceed.
‘Mrs Jacobs died this afternoon. Did no one inform you?’
‘No they did not.’ Charlie didn’t exactly snap but he did sound quite put out. ‘We wouldn’t have come if we’d known. It’s most inconvenient.’
‘She’s dead?’ Jenny went cold all over and her voice was as an icy breath, barely audible.
‘I’m afraid so,’ came the officious response.
For a moment, nothing was said. An odd cough, the sound of metal on metal – medical utensils, dishes and bedpans on steel trollies echoed off the walls and high ceiling.
‘Can we see her,’ asked Jenny. Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. Her whole body felt too stiff to move.
‘Are you relatives?’
‘Yes,’ said Charlie without giving Jenny time to answer. ‘This is her niece. We’ve come a long way.’
The sister didn’t contradict him, didn’t question whether they were telling the truth, though they were the closest thing to family Ruth had. ‘We await the undertakers.’
Jenny gasped. Charlie’s arm snaked around her shoulders but gave no relief. She had not expected this. She’d hoped to see Ruth at least one last time.
‘Do you still want to see her?’ Charlie whispered.
Jenny answered promptly. ‘Now we’re here. Just to pay our respects and see that she’s at peace. My aunt had a hard life. It would mean so much to me.’
A moment and then agreement. ‘Of course.’
Their footsteps walking over the chestnut-brown lino sounded like a drumbeat, a slow dirge down the centre of the ward.
Jenny realised she hadn’t asked whether Isaac had visited recently, whether he too had paid his last respects. She imagined him being devastated.
Curtains had been pulled around her old friend’s bed. The ward sister pulled one back, just enough for them to enter. There were no chairs. Nothing except an empty bedside cabinet.
Ruth’s complexion would have matched the whiteness of the pillow if it hadn’t been for the greyness that had sucked her colour and sunken her cheeks.
Jenny held her breath and raised a hand to her mouth. Ruth had been like a mother to her and Isaac like a father. Warm, happy people, full of life and well built. Now she lay here, no more than a bag of skin and bone.
Jenny filled up and turned her head into Charlie’s chest.
‘I want to go,’ she whispered against his overcoat. ‘I want to go home.’
She felt his hand on her hair, smoothing it away from her face.
‘Don’t you want to see Isaac?’
She shook her head, her face hidden against his shoulder. ‘No. Not now.’
Back outside, the wind that had blown them into the hospital brought the smell of mud and effluent from this part of the River Avon known as the Cut. Mildew and weeds came with it.
Charlie helped her into the front passenger seat of the car, where she sat numbly.
‘Tonight of all nights, I think we need a drink.’
‘I’ve changed my mind about seeing Isaac.’
‘I’ll go there tomorrow and see how he is,’ he said as he threw the starting handle into the back seat and took hold of the shuddering steering wheel.
‘And ask him for…’ She paused, hardly daring to voice what had to be faced. ‘Details of funeral arrangements.’
‘Yes.’
For a moment, he sat looking through the front windscreen.
‘Do you want to go for a drink?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not in the mood. I’d like to go home – if you don’t mind.’
It was too dark to see his features, but she did fancy his jaw tightened. Like her, he was moved, shocked to find that Ruth had passed. Not that it was entirely unexpected. She’d looked ill each time they’d visited, but having a drink afterwards with Charlie had helped her cope, had lightened the whole evening. Had lightened her life in fact. But not tonight.
They were silent, at least for a while, then Charlie patted her hand. ‘She was a good woman.’
Jenny managed a whispered a one-word response. ‘Yes.’
She dabbed at her eyes on the way home.
The rain eased off. A sickle moon peered over tumbling grey cloud. The road ahead was still slick with wetness and empty of vehicles. The darkness was oppressive, the world chilly and damp.
Their mutual silence was suddenly split by the sound of bells. An ambulance overtook them, racing ahead, weaving its way through the sparse traffic.
The road ahead was dark, though the recent painting of kerbs, a precaution, so it was said, in case war was declared, did make a difference.
‘I wonder where he was going in such a hurry,’ said Charlie, his comment matching her thoughts.
Jenny stretched her neck to see further along the road ahead. ‘Perhaps it’s a road accident.’
‘Could be anything,’ returned Charlie.
‘I can still hear the bells. It must be quite close.’
Charlie agreed. ‘As though they’re following us, but ahead.’
Her own words sent a chill down her spine. It really was as though the emergency ringing of the ambulance bells was keeping pace with them – or rather they were keeping up with it.
As they entered Coronation Close the sound was deafening.
‘Oh no!’ Jenny clenched her stomach.
The ambulance was parked up close to her house. Worse still, something bigger and equally worrying was parked in front of it.
Before her very eyes, firemen jumped down from a bright red fire engine. People in the close were standing at their garden gates and front doors.
A policeman’s bicycle was propped against Thelma’s garden gate. The policeman it belonged to was standing in front of it, notebook and pen in hand.
Jenny gasped as she realised that the emergency vehicles weren’t just close to her house, they were parked right outside it and a pall of smoke, gossamer like, surrounded her house.
‘No!’
She reached for the car door, fear giving her the strength to push it open. As she did so, the smell hit her, the stink of rotten eggs, stronger than ever before. Along with it came the conversation she’d had with Cath that morning. An explosion – somewhere. A ball of fire. Someone’s hair singed. Someone dead.
‘No.’
That one word was no more than a breath, caught in the air. Nothing and nobody mattered – and that included Charlie who she left in the car – all she could think of was that her girls had been injured, perhaps were dead.
She dashed to her garden gate, only vaguely aware that Charlie had left the car and followed her.
A fireman’s broad arm swept across, preventing her from going any further. ‘Can’t you smell it? There’s been a gas explosion. Stand back.’
She pressed against the arm that restrained her. ‘It’s my house. What’s happened to my house?’
‘Your house? Was anyone in there?’ asked the fireman, his look unreadable.
She smelled his sweat, the damp wool of his uniform, the strong scent of tobacco on his breath.
Jenny felt her legs give way. ‘My girls are in there,’ she cried. ‘Tilly and Gloria. They’re in there. Get them out. Please get them out!’
Charlie caught her before her legs totally gave way. He held her so tightly that she couldn’t move her arms. Much as she wanted to rush into the house, escape was impossible. But her girls! Where were her girls?
‘Have you found anyone?’ Charlie asked the fireman.
The fireman shook his head. ‘We got the gas cut off first. We’re going in now. Luckily there was no fire, just a load of dust from the damage.’ He jerked his stout jaw to where firemen disappeared around the side of the house.
Jenny felt her heart turn heavy. Please God, don’t take my girls from me.
Tears filled her eyes as she waited for the firemen to reappear.
Just when she thought the end of the world had come, she heard someone shout her name.
‘Jenny! Jenny!’
She turned to see Thelma pushing at the policeman who was trying to stop her from coming out of her garden gate.
‘Get out of my way, you stupid sod,’ she heard her say. Another shove, his helmet wobbled and Thelma barged past him.
Thelma gripped Jenny’s shoulders so fiercely that Charlie was forced to relinquish his hold on her. Only concerned for her children, Jenny did not see the look of recognition that passed between Thelma and Charlie.
She became aware of Thelma shaking her, shouting something into her face.
‘Your girls are fine. They’re with me. It’s only your boiler that’s dead and gone,’ she said laughingly, though it was far from being a laughing matter. ‘And your kitchen window – and doors. Nothing that can’t be replaced.’
Her girls were all right! Her house was damaged but it was only a house. It was her children who mattered! The blasted boiler was now nothing but bits of jagged metal.
The whole scene, the very thought of it, was so surreal that Jenny burst out laughing. Although relieved, the tears continued to stream down her face and into her mouth. What if, she thought, what if… Yet again, she had a lot to thank Thelma for.
‘Come on. Let’s have a cuppa whilst this gets sorted out.’
Her dear neighbour had hold of her arm, guiding her across the road to the front door of her house.
All four girls were hanging out of the door, looking awestruck at what was going on.
‘You’re safe,’ cried Jenny as she gathered her daughters into her arms, her tears now wetting the tops of their heads.
It occurred to her then to tell Charlie.
Beaming with relief, she looked over her shoulder to where she’d left him, but he wasn’t there. The tail-lights of his car glowed from the far end of the close. Then it was gone.
‘You all right?’ asked Thelma.
‘I expected him to stay a bit longer.’ Jenny’s relief that her daughters were safe was coupled with puzzlement. Charlie’s swift departure had come as a surprise. Up until they’d arrived in Coronation Close, he’d been his usual attentive self. What had happened to change that?
There were lots of things Thelma could say, but she held back. This was not the time to mention Charlie’s visit to the shop with Mrs Justin-Cooper.
