The Second-last Woman in England

by Maggie Joel

  Last night she had come home to announce that Freddie was returning to Canada.

  She had returned late; the children had already gone to bed, and Cecil had been sitting reading the paper in the drawing room, listening to Elgar on the wireless, half waiting for her, half attempting to complete the crossword. There had been one final clue, twelve across: ‘A gamble on some sunshine is treacherous’, seven letters, ending with ‘s’.

  She had come in, stood for a moment in the doorway, regarding him, it had seemed, and made her announcement.

  ‘Freddie is going to return to Canada.’

  And he had been relieved, truth to tell. Who would not have been? His brother-in-law’s return to England had been disastrous. It had damaged his marriage, upset the children and jeopardised a friendship with Nobby to boot. And what it had cost Empire and Colonial and his own position there—even before Freddie had turned up—well, that was nothing short of catastrophic. Frankly, Freddie was nothing but trouble.

  But he had needed to play it carefully, he had realised that at once.

  ‘I see,’ he had replied, folding his paper and placing it on the coffee table.

  ‘You want him to go, don’t you?’ Harriet had replied immediately, though he had said nothing to indicate this.

  ‘My dear, it makes no difference to me one way or the other. It’s his decision.’

  ‘But you’re glad, aren’t you?’

  He had been baffled, irritated by her attack. She had seemed almost hysterical.

  ‘I won’t deny it’s best all round if he does go. It can’t be much fun for him here. And I doubt that things will improve substantially for him in the foreseeable future.’

  ‘You don’t know what it’s been like for him! He’s waited years, years to come back; it’s been his only glimmer of hope during those dreadful, dreary years in exile.’

  ‘For God’s sake! He’s not a deposed monarch!’

  ‘Isn’t he? He may as well be! It’s as though all those years of active service, of fighting for one’s country in that dreadful place, in appalling conditions, count for nothing.’

  ‘Harriet, I don’t make the rules.’

  ‘No, but you’re happy to uphold them when it suits you, when you’re safe and secure in your office. No one can touch you there, can they?’

  Her words had shocked him. They had been so bitter, so contemptuous. They had rendered him speechless. Was this what she thought of him? Of his work? Of those endless, terrifying nights fire-watching at the docks during the war?

  ‘Do you know what Freddie has been through? Do you have any idea?’

  ‘For God’s sake, I am not responsible for what has happened to Freddie!’

  Then he had lowered his eyes. The conversation with Nobby at the horrid little pub had come back to him. But Harriet knew nothing of that. No one did, and no one needed to know. And suddenly he had been angry with her for putting him in this position.

  ‘And might I remind you, Harriet, that you are my wife? That your duty, first and foremost, is to me and your family. Not to your younger brother, who, frankly, has been nothing but trouble since he came back—and for a damn sight longer than that too.’

  He had had a good mind to let her know exactly what he had done for Freddie, and not just for Freddie but for her and Simon too! He had jeopardised his own career, he had lied to the police, that was what he had done!

  He had picked up the newspaper then and shaken it angrily.

  ‘My … duty?’ she had repeated, as though the word were foreign to her.

  He had thrown the paper down again.

  ‘Yes, your duty. Frankly—and I’m sorry to have to say this—but you appear more concerned about Freddie than you do about your own children, and me, for that matter.’

  That had been the deciding blow, it had appeared, as Harriet had turned and walked from the room and a moment later he had heard her bedroom door open and close.

  He had gazed at the last clue in the crossword for some considerable time after that, but the answer had continued to elude him.

  Cecil surveyed himself in the mirror, adjusted the way the blazer rested on his shoulders and straightened his tie so that the swan and seahorse crest was central, turned to face the window and looked at himself sideways. Good, it would do. The ladies, of course, would take hours to get ready—hair teasing and spraying and make-up, and one dress then another, and first one pair of shoes, then a second, then a third. And which handbag? And how much jewellery? Or just the pearls? And then, of course, this evening, they would spend hours taking it all off. And everyone would go to bed and it would all be over. Tomorrow was another day.

  Out of nowhere the pointlessness of it all welled up and threatened to overwhelm him.

  He leaned his forehead against the mirror and closed his eyes, remembering the last time—the last Coronation in ’37. He and Harriet had just become engaged. He’d been living in lodgings in Bayswater and not yet turned 30—still a young man, filled with a young man’s hopes and ambitions. One’s whole life ahead of one, the future unknown, a blank canvas. And now here he was in his mid-forties. Life was on a set course, there were no unknowns left. In a few short years the children would leave home, get married, start their own families. And he was left with his job, his wife, his home.

  Was it enough?

  The Coronation mugs stood on the dressing table. He picked one up and delicately unwrapped the intricately folded tissue paper until the mug was revealed in all its pageantry and splendour, and the face of the new Queen gazed serenely back at him.

  He smiled. It was a splendid day—a day to remember.

  Cecil was first down to breakfast. He sat alone in the breakfast room and waited for Mrs Thompson to bring in the tea. Upstairs he could hear sounds of movement.

  ‘Mummy, what shoes should I wear? I don’t like that black pair, they hurt my feet.’

  ‘I hardly think it’s a tie sort of day, Mumsy. After all, it’s not as if we were actually attending the service at the Abbey, is it?’

  ‘Could you please just dress yourself, Anne,’ came Harriet’s irritable reply, audible, though indistinctly, from her dressing room. ‘Nanny, would you please see to it.’

  Cecil sat and twirled the napkin ring around his napkin silently. The two mugs in their crisp white tissue paper stood on the sideboard.

  Eventually his family began to emerge—Anne and Nanny first, the one bursting energetically into the room, the other red-faced and a little flustered, self-consciously bringing up the rear.

  ‘Good morning, Anne. Good morning, Nanny. And a happy Coronation Day to you both,’ Cecil remarked.

  ‘Happy Coronation Day!’ Anne sang back, plonking herself down at the table and grabbing her napkin.

  ‘Oh. Yes. Same to you, Mr Wallis,’ added the Nanny, rather feebly.

  ‘And what are your family doing to mark this momentous occasion, Miss Corbett? Are they attending a street party?’

  The question seemed to flummox the girl, then she recovered herself and said, somewhat grimly, ‘Oh yes, a street party. They’re all going to a lovely party down our street.’

  And Anne, who had been fussily rearranging her position on the chair, looked up and said, ‘But Father, Nanny doesn’t have a family, do you, Nanny? They were all killed.’

  No one appeared to know what to reply to this and thankfully Julius strode into the room at that moment with his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Morning, Pops,’ he announced blithely, reaching for the discarded Times from last night. ‘Here we all are then,’ he continued. ‘The big day finally upon us. A day of pageantry and jollity to thrill the masses, eh?’

  Fortunately Mrs Thompson chose that moment to arrive with the tea and coffee pots. She burst into the breakfast room in a gaudy Coronation apron, her hair recently set for the occasion.

  ‘What a mornin’!’ she announced breathlessly. ‘Thought we was gonna run out of coffee,’ she declared, dumping the two pots on the table with a jarri
ng thud and a shake of her tightly permed head. ‘But at the last minute I found a spare packet at the back of the shelf.’

  ‘That is a relief, Mrs T,’ said Julius. ‘Lord knows what we’d have done but for your quick thinking and eagle eyes.’

  Mrs Thompson made no reply to this as she was already patting her hair and heading out of the door.

  ‘Oh. Beg your pardon, Mrs Wallis,’ she said, and Harriet entered the room looking cross.

  ‘Why is that wretched woman always in the way?’ said Harriet pulling out her chair and glaring furiously at them all.

  There was a surprised silence. As far as anyone knew Mrs Thompson wasn’t always in the way. Indeed, she tended to spend the majority of her time downstairs smoking her revolting cigarettes, poring over the Daily Mail and listening to Have a Go and Twenty Questions and Round Britain Quiz on the radio. One frequently had to go in search of her.

  But Harriet was cross. Had been cross for days. More than cross, truth be told. Downright unpleasant. Cecil poured himself a cup of tea, but he could feel her eyes on him.

  ‘Betrays!’ announced Julius and everyone stared at him. ‘Twelve across, seven letters. “A gamble on some sunshine is treacherous”: bet-rays. Betrays.’

  The crossword completed, he tossed The Times aside and set to work on a piece of toast. Mrs Thompson had prepared kippers for breakfast and she placed the steaming plate on the sideboard with some ceremony.

  ‘I thought kippers for today,’ she announced proudly, as though a plate of copper-coloured, steaming kippers was the ultimate tribute to the Coronation. She had also prepared a mountain of toast, which stood stacked two-deep in the silver toast rack in the centre of the table, cooling rapidly.

  ‘Marvellous,’ replied Cecil, smiling at her in a way that, he hoped, acknowledged the extra effort she had put in on this auspicious occasion. ‘I trust you have prepared enough kippers for yourself too, Mrs Thompson?’ he added, on a sudden wave of bonhomie.

  ‘Oh, I can’t abide them,’ said Mrs Thompson airily. ‘Nasty, slippery things they are,’ and she sailed out of the room.

  ‘I don’t like kippers either,’ announced Anne solemnly from the far end of the table. She laid her knife and fork down on either side of her plate and regarded her parents silently as though she had been asked to do something heinous. As she had happily tucked into a kipper the last time they had been served, Cecil felt a flicker of annoyance but Harriet got in before him.

  ‘Don’t eat one, then,’ she replied crisply and Anne scowled down at her plate.

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘Well, I find a kipper is a very satisfying and nourishing way to start the day,’ announced Cecil, going over to the silver dish on the sideboard and placing two of the offending items onto his plate. ‘And Mrs Thompson is a dab hand at preparing them,’ he added.

  ‘And yet she never eats them herself,’ observed Julius darkly.

  Cecil experienced a second flicker of annoyance—actually, this time it was more a flash than a flicker, and he was glad he had his back to the table. Why were they harping on about kippers on this most special of mornings?

  ‘Mummy, may I go and watch the Coronation with Brigit Myles?’ said Anne. ‘Her family have a flat with a balcony that overlooks Hyde Park. They are having ever such a grand party and Brigit said she asked her mother and her mother said I could go.’

  ‘As her mother has not seen fit to ask your father or myself whether it is acceptable,’ replied Harriet, ‘I do not think it appropriate. And we do not announce such invitations at the last moment, Anne. It is impolite.’

  Anne’s face turned a mottled red and she glared defiantly at her empty plate.

  ‘I want to go! It’s not fair!’

  ‘Nanny, did you know anything about this?’

  Nanny looked up, wide-eyed, from the slice of toast she was nibbling, a rabbit caught in the headlights of a speeding lorry.

  ‘Well, I said Anne ought to ask you …’ she replied slowly, with a glance at Anne.

  ‘Nanny said I could go!’ wailed Anne and Nanny looked horrified.

  ‘I most certainly did not! I said it wasn’t up to me at all. I said to ask.’

  ‘You said I could go!’

  That one of them was lying was apparent to Cecil. And that that person was, in all likelihood, Anne made it no easier to accept. All children lied, of course—it was a natural part of growing up … Not that he had ever lied to his own father, never. Except about enjoying things. But that was different—it was expected that one would lie about enjoying oneself.

  ‘This is a family day, Anne,’ he observed calmly as he returned to the table and seated himself. ‘An occasion for spending time with one’s family. I’m sure Brigit and her mother will understand.’

  Anne fell mutinously silent. He was aware that Harriet was watching him as he reached for a slice of toast and began to spread butter on it. There was so much toast that taking a single slice made no noticeable inroad into the stack. This was not how he had imagined their Coronation breakfast to be. But there were the mugs; he had intended some kind of ceremony, a few words. A presentation.

  ‘Nanny hasn’t eaten any breakfast,’ said Anne sullenly, as though she was determined to get the girl into trouble. And indeed Nanny’s plate was empty. The girl flushed a deep scarlet.

  She was an odd one, that girl.

  ‘Anne, we do not make personal comments,’ said Harriet coldly.

  ‘That’s not a personal comment. I was just saying—’

  ‘I said no,’ said Harriet, and Anne assumed a look of outraged silence.

  ‘Well,’ said Julius, having dispatched a kipper, and placing his napkin on his plate, ‘I’m afraid I must dash. Mind if I leave the table?’

  ‘Actually, I’d be obliged if you would stay a moment longer, old man,’ said Cecil quickly, and something flashed across the boy’s face.

  ‘Of course. Anything you say, old boy.’

  ‘I wanted to say a few words, that’s all.’ Cecil spoke lightly, cheerily. After all, this was a celebration, wasn’t it?

  Julius looked down at his plate and something twitched at the side of this mouth. Anne sniffed sulkily and Harriet sat very still. Nanny, who had unfortunately chosen that moment to reach for a second slice of toast, now dropped her hand back onto her lap and stared at her plate in obvious mortification. She, the nanny—alone amongst them all?—understood the gravity, the import of the occasion. He addressed the nanny.

  ‘This is an important day,’ he began. No, that wasn’t right. ‘This may be the most important, the most special, the most historic day of our lives!’

  ‘What about the war ending?’ said Anne.

  Cecil ignored this interruption.

  ‘Today heralds the start of a new era in the History of Our Nation. A new Elizabethan Age, and we are all privileged to witness it.’

  No one said anything. They appeared to be waiting for him to go on—or to finish?

  ‘And I, for one, am delighted to be able to celebrate such a momentous event with my family. And I trust that in later years, when we are all older, when some of us—God forbid—are no longer here, that we may look back on this day with pleasure. With fondness.’

  He paused. Was Harriet even listening? Nanny was listening. He wished he had bought the nanny a Coronation mug.

  ‘And to that end, to mark this occasion and this special breakfast at the start of this historic day, I would like to present Julius and Anne with these,’ and he went over to the sideboard and picked up the two packages and walked around and handed one to Julius and one to Anne. Then he resumed his seat.

  There was a slight pause.

  ‘Oh. Thanks,’ said Julius, a trifle awkwardly.

  ‘What is it?’ said Anne.

  Cecil sat down and poured himself a cup of coffee. Harriet hadn’t touched the coffee. He didn’t usually drink coffee himself before eleven o’clock, but the pot was there, full and steaming gently, and Mrs Thompson had gon
e to some trouble to make it.

  Both children unwrapped the white tissue paper and simultaneously revealed the creamy Coronation mugs.

  ‘Oh. I’ve already got one. We got given these at school,’ said Anne, putting it down on the table. Julius said nothing.

  ‘Well, now you have two,’ said Cecil with a bright smile. ‘Perhaps you can present one to your own children in time, as a memento?’

  Anne didn’t reply to this suggestion.

  Julius stifled a yawn.

  ‘Well. This has all been thoroughly entertaining, of course, but I have lots to do, so if no one objects I shall push off.’

  ‘We don’t “push off ”, Julius. We leave the table,’ Cecil snapped and Julius froze, half off his chair.

  ‘Then I shall leave the table, if I may?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Anne left too. Only the nanny stayed behind to pick up the discarded tissue paper and the two mugs. Cecil watched her over his coffee.

  ‘Why don’t you take one, Nanny?’ he suggested, wishing for some reason that Nanny had not just witnessed this absurd charade.

  Nanny looked up.

  ‘Oh no, they belong to the children,’ she said, and left the room.

  A car drove past the window below, tooting its horn excitedly. People had begun to celebrate already. There had been talk of a street party in Athelstan Gardens, but most of the households had purchased a television and wanted to watch it at home. Friends, family, neighbours were already beginning to arrive, or to go somewhere else if they had made other arrangements.

  ‘Well, that was a ridiculous little scene,’ observed Harriet.

  They were alone now, the children, the nanny, Mrs Thompson gone. The coldness of her words, the contempt, froze the blood in his veins. It was the first thing she had said to him since the horrid little scene last night.

  Was no one going to eat all this toast?

  ‘Uncle Leo and Aunt Felicity are here!’ called Anne excitedly from upstairs. Her bad temper from breakfast was, it seemed, now all but forgotten. Oh, for the simplicity, the short memory of youth, thought Cecil as he straightened his tie for the third time before the mirror. Leo and Felicity were here. The day had begun.