Shameful Secrets on Coronation Close, page 8
‘Never mind,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Your kids are hale and hearty. That’s all that matters.’ Thelma rubbed the two girls’ heads.
A car stopped somewhere behind the fire truck and a man got out. An expanse of khaki-coloured trench coat flared out behind him like a single dull wing. He addressed one of the fireman. ‘I’m from the council come to assess the damage. Can I take a look?’
The fireman said that he could.
Once assured it was safe, the council official boldly marched up the garden path and around the side to the back of the house. A fireman accompanied him, explaining before they disappeared that there was considerable damage. ‘Could be a few days before…’ The words disappeared with the two men.
Jenny exchanged a worried look with Thelma.
‘Did you hear what they said?’
Thelma nodded, her arm tight around Jenny’s shoulders, hugging her close. ‘It’ll be all right, love. They’ll get it fixed in no time. How’s your friend Ruth by the way?’
Jenny shook her head disconsolately. She was doubly devastated and Thelma saw it in her face.
‘She’s gone.’ Jenny said it quickly. It was almost as though she had to push Ruth’s death away to cope with this disaster.
Thelma understood immediately. ‘I’m so sorry, and what with this on top of it…’
‘I want to see the damage.’ She took a step forward, but Thelma held her back. ‘Be patient. The man from the council will inspect it and let you know how things are. Anyway, as that fireman said, it didn’t catch fire.’
The two men appeared from out of the darkness that the side path of the house was always cloaked in. Their heads were together in deep discussion.
Jenny’s eyes were wide with alarm.
With an air of old-world courtesy, the fireman introduced Jenny. ‘This is the lady of the house. Luckily, both she and her children were not at home at the time of the explosion.’
‘Can I go home?’ she asked before the man from the council had time to open his mouth.
He shook his head mournfully. ‘I’m sorry, but we must make it safe. The gas supply to the boiler was the problem. A faulty tap.’
Cath’s voice rang out. ‘Well, that ain’t for the first time. You should be checking them boilers.’
Her husband Bill added his comment: ‘I sorted mine meself – no thanks to the council.’
‘You had no right doing that. It’s council property,’ said the official in a rather indignant manner.
Bill was right back at him. ‘And wait to be blown up while you lot get ’round to doing something about it?’
Enjoying the argument and perhaps the possibility of fisticuffs, the crowd gathered closer. An official called out for everyone to calm down and disperse.
Jenny, dealt a double tragedy tonight, exploded with anger.
‘Calm down? Calm down? Me and my children could have been killed. How can you expect anyone to calm down? As for you…’ She turned on the man from the council. ‘All I want to know is when I can put my children to bed.’
Faced with her anger and that of her neighbours, the council official took a step back, positioning himself slightly behind the fireman and the policeman, figures of authority he thought might protect him. Once behind them, he shook his head. ‘Not tonight, I’m afraid. I must send workmen along to replace the pipework and boiler. Then there’s the window and internal door to replace.’
‘And when will that happen?’ Jenny asked hotly.
‘Within the next few days. I can’t promise a date…’
‘Oh Lord!’ Jenny buried her face in her hands.
‘There’ll be no gas supply and no electricity either.’
She heard the words but did not come out from behind her hands. A poor shield against adversity but all she had.
‘It’s a precaution for your own safety,’ added the fireman, his concerned frown hidden beneath the peak of his helmet. He felt sorry for her, sorry also for all the other victims of gas explosions. He really cared about the safety of those affected.
Thelma placed her hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. We can all shove up a bit at my place. Our Alice and Mary can share one bed and your Gloria and Tilly can share Alice’s bed. You can share with me.’
‘No, I can’t, Thelma. You’ve got your George home and don’t get enough time with him as it is. Me and the girls moving in would get in the way.’
A rarely heard voice intervened, wafting their way on steaming breath. ‘Excuse me.’
Many neighbours had gathered to view the near tragedy that had befallen Coronation Close. The last person they’d expected to see was Dorothy Partridge’s sister, Harriet.
Even at night, the darkness minimally lifted by the lights of emergency vehicles, it was enough to illuminate nervous hesitation.
‘My sister’s gone to hospital. Not for long, but perhaps long enough until the council have carried out the repairs. There’s plenty of room if you need somewhere to stay.’
‘She’s staying with me,’ said Thelma. ‘If she wants to that is.’
Jenny was both surprised and touched, so much so that pent-up emotion brought tears to her eyes. ‘That’s so kind of you. Of both of you.’
She shook her head and the threat of tears became a trickle, pouring from her eyes, down her cheeks and into her mouth.
‘Now what’s this all about, girl. Everything will be all right,’ said Thelma, her broad arm around Jenny’s slender shoulders.
Jenny sobbed and sobbed. ‘I have to say that it was the best thing in the world when I moved here. I’ve got the best neighbours in the world.’
Notwithstanding Isaac and Ruth of course.
Perhaps that was why Charlie had set off in a hurry. She’d remembered him mentioning calling in on Isaac.
‘If you do get stuck at all, the offer’s still open,’ said Harriet.
‘She’ll be fine with me,’ stated Thelma in a manner unlikely to attract argument. One arm was already around Jenny’s back, pressing her towards the house Thelma shared with her two daughters and her son, George. ‘And the girls will be needing fresh clothes. You heard the fireman. You can’t go back into that house just now. My girls won’t mind sharing their clothes. Me too for that matter.’
Jenny swallowed the very truthful comment that Thelma’s clothes would be too big for her. Thelma’s answer would be that it wouldn’t take long to alter them to suit.
Instead of arguing, she thanked Harriet for her offer. ‘It’s very kind of you. How’s your sister by the way?’
‘Complaining. Dorothy is an expert at complaining.’
‘You can say that again,’ muttered Thelma.
‘Is it anything serious?’ asked Jenny, inclined to be more charitable. She hadn’t been such a target for Dorothy’s vitriol as Thelma.
A lowering of eyes, glance pointedly downwards. ‘Women’s problems.’
‘Oh.’
That said it all.
‘I hope she’ll be home soon.’
‘So do I. The house is very quiet without her.’ A slight smile. ‘Though that’s not necessarily a bad thing. At least for a while.’
The ambulance that had raced past Charlie’s car on the way here now left. There’d been nothing for the crew to do, but they had lingered when Maude had come out with a tray of tea and homemade cakes. Maude baked wonderful cakes from the cheapest ingredients. Apple cake was one of her party pieces.
Thelma’s elbow nudged Jenny’s ribs. ‘Let’s get inside. There’s nothing can be done and I’ve got to get up in the morning. Business as usual at Bertrams.’
Before going, Jenny turned to Harriet once more. ‘I really appreciate the offer. Thank you.’
Was that a flash of disappointment she saw?
‘Perhaps you would like to come for a cup of tea tomorrow morning?’
‘Yes. I would like that.’
Surprisingly, she received no condemnation from Thelma for accepting the invitation.
Their time once inside the house was taken up with sorting out sleeping arrangements, bedding and what the girls were wearing to school the following morning.
Thelma was like a whirlwind, dashing around and getting everyone organised.
After a quick supper of bread and jam, both sets of girls, giggling and chattering with excitement, were sent off to bed.
Thelma insisted they have a cup of cocoa each before turning in.
‘And we can have a little chat. I’ve got biscuits. Do you want one?’
Jenny felt as though her eyes were rolling around in their sockets when she shook her head. ‘Just cocoa will be fine.’ Exhaustion was taking hold, sucking the adrenaline from her body.
Thelma insisted on three spoons of sugar.
Before they had chance to take a sip, George came in. It was explained to him why there was a policeman standing guard outside Jenny’s house and why a fire engine had almost run him over at the end of the street.
‘We’ve got three guests for a few days. I’ve sorted out who’s sleeping where, but you be on your best behaviour,’ his mother said to him.
‘I’m never anything else, Mother. Never anything else,’ he declared, a wide grin splitting his face.
‘Right. Then you get off to bed. Me and Jenny need to have a chat.’
‘What about?’
‘Women’s talk.’ She jerked her head towards the stairs. ‘So you get on up there.’
‘Lavatory first,’ he said.
Jenny had no idea what ‘women’s talk’ Thelma had in mind and didn’t relish the thought of it. She was way beyond talking about anything.
Shattered by the night’s events, she rubbed at her head and slumped into a chair, the cocoa untouched. ‘I’m so sorry, Thelma, but I can’t manage it. All I want to do is close my eyes. I would have said goodnight to Charlie before he left, but when I looked he was gone.’ She shrugged her shoulders.
Thelma pursed her lips. She badly wanted to give Jenny a good shake and tell her what she suspected of Charlie. Unlike Jenny, she knew why he’d shot off like he did. One look at her and he’d recognised her as the woman who had served him at Bertrams with his… She wasn’t sure quite what word to use. Charlie wasn’t the first she’d heard who was hitched up with an older woman. In her experience, the older woman paid the bills for her younger lover. That was the only thing that niggled. Charlie Talbot had set up a personal account. This confused her and as such she was glad she hadn’t had the little talk she’d planned. Best she thought about it a bit more. There could be a simple explanation. On the other hand, there might not.
After Jenny took herself to bed, Thelma made cocoa for George.
He took a big slurp. ‘Ma, you’re a brick. Too generous by half.’
‘I’m just being a good neighbour.’
‘Course you are.’
George had had a drop to drink but still managed to focus on the paleness of her face.
‘You don’t look so well of late. Women’s problems, is it?’ He grinned as he said it.
‘Cheeky sod!’ She made as if to slap him, but George only laughed.
‘Well, I’ll be off to me bed,’ he said, swigging back the dregs of the cocoa. ‘You look as if you should be in yer bed too.’
‘I’ll be right behind you.’
He nodded and said goodnight.
Once she was alone, Thelma poured herself a glass of water. She sat back down in the chair and reached for her handbag. The laxatives were the same ones Cath had used. Every woman in the same circumstances she was in now knew about Penny Royal. Sometimes they worked, sometimes they didn’t. She hoped they would work otherwise her life would be turned upside down.
9
On the following day, once Thelma had gone to work and the girls to school, Jenny crossed the road, desperate to know the plight of her beloved house. The policeman had gone. She looked to left and right just in case he was loitering somewhere. On seeing no sign of him, she pushed open the gate and followed the garden path around to the rear.
She gasped with shock. Her breath caught in her throat and tears stung her eyes when she saw the state of her house. The metal window frame had withstood the blast, but the windowpanes lay smashed on the ground. The back door was still in situ, but the inner door was shattered. The saucepan rack that ran the full length of the wall and was above the boiler had taken the brunt of the blast. Only the length above the coal hole remained, the rest of it only fit for kindling. Pots and pans were scattered across the garden, warped and dented. The kitchen was a mess. The gas stove was covered in dust and splinters of wood.
My dustpan. I need my dustpan.
Daft thoughts, but she couldn’t help the compulsion to clear the debris and sort out the cooking pots.
She would have no means to cook. No electricity either. But she did have a fireplace and there were candles kept for emergencies. They’d sometimes resorted to candles back in Blue Bowl Alley, the gas lighting having been unreliable. A coal fire in the grate had been a necessity. This house, she thought, and all the others in Coronation Close were luxurious in comparison to Blue Bowl Alley.
She knew she was supposed to be here. What was it the man from the council had said? It wouldn’t be safe.
‘Yoohoo. Are you all right in there?’
The sudden intrusion made her jump before she recognised Harriet.
‘Oh my.’ A pair of pale blue eyes scoured the state of the kitchen. ‘My. It is in a mess, isn’t it.’
Jenny sighed. ‘I was hoping I could tidy it up enough to live in – or at least sleep in. We’re a bit cramped over in Thelma’s and I feel I’m imposing.’
‘I can understand that. She’s a good sort is Mrs Dawson.’
Harriet’s attitude towards Thelma was at odds with that of her sister Dorothy so was mildly surprising.
‘Do you want a hand tidying it up?’
‘Yes. If it’s no trouble.’
‘None at all. I’m at a loose end without Dorothy around giving her orders.’
They set to with a vengeance.
Harriet took charge of the heavier jobs, fetching tools and setting the pot shelf back into place above the spot where the boiler used to be. The fragments of boiler had been removed. The ends of what remained of the lead gas pipes had been hammered flat to prevent any more gas escaping. The water pipes too. Debris and dirt were swept up with the aid of a sweeping brush, a hand brush and two dustpans. Harriet brought a mop and bucket from next door.
‘The fresh air will dry the floor,’ said Harriet as she pushed open the window. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, suddenly laughing. ‘It never needed opening.’
Jenny looked ruefully at the glassless kitchen window where a pair of green gingham curtains hung in threads. She’d bought them at a second-hand shop in Bedminster. ‘I loved these curtains. Now look at them. Fit only for dusters.’ She screwed them up and flung them onto the draining board feeling somewhat defeated, saddened and despairing. All her effort to make this a home, and now look at it.
Harriet stood watching her. Jenny could feel the sympathy reaching out like a kind pat on the shoulder, a reassuring hug.
‘Come on, love. Let’s go to our place and have a cuppa.’
Entering the house next door felt almost like trespassing. Such was her discomfort, Jenny half expected Dorothy to leap out and order her from the house.
Harriet seemed to sense her concern. ‘Don’t worry. Dorothy won’t be home from the hospital for two days at least. I’m paying for an ambulance to bring her home. Lucky we can afford it.’
Crockery clattered in the kitchen as Harriet put a kettle on the gas, the pot, cups and saucers on the table.
Jenny sat feeling lost in the living room. Whilst she waited for the tea, she took in the details of number one, Coronation Close. Everything in the room was overly neat, to the extent of being pristine, untouchable and to some extent unusable. Not a thing was out of place. Cushions were set square in the two armchairs. One each of the same pattern – roses and a lady in a crinoline – sat either end of the settee. Another lady in a crinoline, painted in bright colours, tended a flower bed on the mirror above the fireplace. The brass fender and coalscuttle gleamed. The rug in front of the fireplace was Turkish in design. A pair of flat-backed Staffordshire dogs sat at either end of the cast-iron mantelpiece.
There were no pictures on the walls. Surprised by this, Jenny dared to get up and look around. Behind an ornate teapot of Oriental design sitting on the dresser was a photograph of two dour-looking people in front of a wide veranda running the length of a bungalow. A man in a turban stood slightly behind them holding a tea tray. She presumed they were her neighbours’ parents.
Another photograph at the other end of the dresser was of a man in an army uniform. Glancing between the photographs, it occurred to Jenny that the man in the uniform resembled the man in the bungalow photograph. They were both thickset, though the former didn’t look as dour as the latter. She decided they had to be related. Father and son perhaps.
There was also a wedding photograph and one of a young woman, her hair piled on top of her head, piercing eyes and a straight unsmiling mouth. Jenny presumed this was Dorothy when younger. If so, she’d been relatively pretty, not so pinched and bitter of expression as in later years.
‘I’ve brought in biscuits. Custard creams.’
Harriet set down a tray on the table. The cups were flowery, delicate and gilt rimmed.
‘Sugar?’
Jenny shook her head and whilst doing so couldn’t help glancing across at the dresser. There was something disconcerting about those photographs, something that roused her suspicions.
‘I take it the couple in front of the bungalow are your parents.’
‘Yes.’ The cup and saucer of milky tea was set in front of her. ‘Sorry,’ Harriet suddenly said, ‘I should have asked if you preferred lemon. Most people who grew up in England prefer milk, but Dorothy and I grew up in India – as you’ve noticed from the photograph.’
‘I’m fine with milk.’ Yet again, her gaze strayed to the dresser. She was about to ask more but was asked a question herself.
