by Annie Murray
Along the street, gardens were in full bloom with lilacs and beds full of pansies and marigolds, phlox and lupins. Bandy Woods used to be just that – woods. But the estate was more than twenty years old now and the gardens were maturing, trees softening the lines of the houses. Most of them were still draped with streamers of coloured bunting.
She always walked part of the way with Maureen, but she’d turned off for home now. Maureen was a slow, spotty girl, but the one person who seemed prepared to hang around with her. The others thought Linda was stuck up. She’d known a lot of them at the elementary school, but she never seemed to fit in. Maureen Lister, though, was glad just to be anyone’s friend. Linda had been like that with Lucy, at the grammar school: honoured to be her friend.
It hurt, remembering Lucy. On that last day at King Edward’s, on the bus home, she’d handed Linda a little parcel. Inside was a book with a red cover, with ‘Autographs’ embossed in curling gold script. It had pink and yellow pages and inside, Lucy had written:
Roses are red, violets are blue,
Sugar is sweet, and so are you.
Best Friends forever – Love from Lucy xx
Linda had stared at it, a big lump in her throat. She felt rotten that she hadn’t got Lucy anything.
‘I’ll get you a present,’ she managed to croak.
‘No – you don’t need to,’ Lucy said in her earnest way.
And Linda saw she was being kind because she knew Linda’s family hadn’t got much money, and she felt even worse. She looked at Lucy’s pale, kind face and barley-coloured hair and saw what she had always known deep down: that Lucy belonged in the grammar school in a way Linda never had and never could. That was what Nana had always said, wasn’t it? Not for the likes of us. Getting above herself, fancy ideas. And if you had fancy ideas, there was punishment waiting at the end of it. That was what her life felt like now – a punishment, with the lessons that never fired her with enthusiasm, and nothing about that school feeling right. And Dad was sick all the time now – really sick. Past getting drunk.
Linda dawdled into Bloomsbury Road. Just round the corner a man was up a ladder, taking down more bunting from a telegraph pole.
‘Load of bloody fuss that was, weren’t it?’ he called down chirpily. ‘Still – all over now.’
Linda didn’t answer, nor did he seem to expect her to. The new queen had just been crowned and Coronation fever had set in all over town, infecting every street with the urge to have parties to celebrate. The occupants of Bloomsbury Road shared out the jobs – who was to set up tables, or make jelly, or ham sandwiches or cake. At least eggs were off the ration now. Violet was talking about getting chickens but hadn’t done it. Sugar was still rationed though.
Grass was mowed and the gardens trimmed and watered. The Martins’ garden at number 18 was still the one to disgrace the street. Even though grass was sprouting in the old bald spot where Harry’s bike had stood for so long, the specimens in the front garden were not the pretty flowers of the neighbouring ones ( Joe Kaminski was growing flowers between the vegetables now), but groundsel, dandelions and quitch grass.
‘It looks a right mess,’ Violet said, staring helplessly at it. ‘I ought to clear it up . . .’ But they knew she wouldn’t. She was too bowed down by everything else, and didn’t even know where to begin.
A week before the great event, Eva Kaminski reported that a Rumbelows van had drawn up outside and two men carried a television into the Bottoms’ house. Reg Bottoms had kept mighty quiet about it though. There was another family at the far end of the road who had a television, with the tell-tale H-shaped aerial on the roof, and it was a magnet for all the kids, who they generously invited in for The Flowerpot Men and Rag, Tag and Bobtail on Watch with Mother, but Mr Bottoms didn’t want the neighbourhood traipsing into his house. The little drama of the television unfolded as the week went past. Linda was home in the afternoons when her mom came in from work and Eva came trotting round to report from the front line.
‘He is a selfish kind of man,’ Eva pronounced with her usual energy, perched on the kitchen stool while Violet made tea and they both filled the kitchen with smoke. As usual Eva was neatly dressed, an emerald green skirt with box pleats and yellow blouse. Eva made all her own clothes and always dressed to dazzle. ‘There’s enough gloom in the world, without putting it in the clothes as well,’ she’d say. She was tiny and tough and gristly, and wore mascara and lipstick, and had a deep, smoker’s voice. ‘Fancy not sharing with everyone around? It is not hurting him to share, is it? I mean I know my Joe is not a very friendly man, but he would do anything for someone who really needs it. Yes – I think Mr B. is very selfish.’ She dragged emphatically on her cigarette.
In fact, on the eve of the big day, Edna Bottoms went round to the Kaminskis and asked if they’d like to come in and watch the Coronation procession on the television.
‘But what about Violet?’ Eva demanded. ‘And her poor husband?’
As Eva reported it, Edna had gone as pink as a rosebud and said that she was very sorry, she’d like to invite everyone in, but Reg wasn’t prepared to consider the Martins. They weren’t his type, she said.
‘So,’ Eva told Violet, ‘I said to her, “In that case, I say no thank you. Joe and I can listen to it on the wireless with our friends like everyone else in the street.” ’
Violet laughed in surprise. ‘You never!’ She sugared Eva’s tea and handed it to her.
‘Ta, baby.’ Eva had never quite got the hang of the way people called each other ‘bab’ so she called them ‘baby’ instead. She took a sip of tea. ‘Anyway – who cares about this stupid television? We will have a nice time.’
On the morning of the Coronation when the street was full of activity – bunting flapping in the drizzle and tables arranged up and down the road and people running in and out of houses – Edna Bottoms appeared on the doorstep at number 18, hair tightly curled and her apron over a shirtwaister dress the colour of broad beans. She seemed flustered and started gabbling the moment the door opened.
‘Violet – I don’t know if you’ve heard about the television.’ She was blushing again. ‘I mean, Reg really can be the end. I wish we’d never bought the blasted thing, I really do, he’s been so difficult about it. We’ve had words about it, I can tell you. See, I wanted to invite everyone in – you know, make a bit of an occasion of it, and Reg . . . Well, anyway,’ she added defiantly, ‘I’m going to ask you to come and watch – that’s if you want to . . . In fact I’m going to ask anyone who wants to.’
‘Poor old Edna,’ Violet said when she’d flapped off home again. ‘She’s a good sort really – it’s just him. D’you want to go in, Harry?’
‘No, I bloody well don’t,’ Harry said. Speaking made him pant. ‘Sitting there looking down his nose. I’m staying here. You can go if you want.’
After a conflab with the Kaminskis they decided that the women and children would go. Linda sat at her mother’s feet on the spotless green carpet in the Bottoms’ house looking round her in amazement. She had never seen a room like it: the walls decorated with immaculate flowery paper, shelves of little ornaments, the chairs new and neat and not a smudge on the walls or speck of dirt anywhere. She could feel that her mom, on the sofa behind her with Carol, kept twitching her feet in discomfort. She was not going to be able to relax. In the event, Edna had invited in quite a few people; the kids squashed in on the floor and she handed them little glasses of orange pop and arrowroot biscuits. After a while Carol slithered down on to the floor as well to be with all of them. Mr Bottoms sat regally in his chair, acting as if none of them were there.
The drama opened on the fairytale world of royalty, the young Princess Elizabeth leaving Buckingham Palace in her gold coach.
Sylvia Peters appeared in her beautiful gown to report on the day.
‘Oh, she does speak nicely,’ Edna Bottoms said wistfully, ‘Wouldn’t it be marvellous to be like that?’
‘Shame it’s not a nicer d
ay, isn’t it?’ Violet said. The overnight campers lining the edges of the Mall had woken to rain.
‘She’s so pretty.’ Carol sighed.
Linda watched, entranced. Going to the Odeon was one thing. It was like stepping into another life, a palace of dreams in front of that giant screen, from where you emerged back into real life with a bump. But this was different – to have the screen right here in your living-room – and Edna and Reg Bottoms’ living-room was already a palace of dreams compared to their house! She thought of her dad, fragile as a bird, dozing in his chair next door, dogs at his feet. And then she gave herself over to the journey of the young princess, meeting her destiny in Westminster Abbey.
Now it was all over everything felt flat, with nothing to look forward to except leaving school in two months. And then what? Joyce had got herself a job at Bird’s few months before the wedding, at Nana’s urging. Bessie had worked at HP’s, the sauce factory, for a couple of years – that was where she’d met Jack.
‘Sets you up for life, good firm like that,’ she’d told Joyce, the week she had come back triumphantly, having been taken on.
They’d had the conversation over Sunday dinner again, when Linda had reluctantly agreed to go to Nana’s. Mrs Magee had died two years back so at least there was one less person who didn’t want to be there.
‘It’s a long way to go,’ Violet said. ‘All the way over there – two buses.’
‘That don’t matter,’ Bessie said. ‘An early start never hurt anyone. People come from all over to work there – always have done. And what’s up with you?’ She finished aggressively, seeing Linda’s gaze fixed burningly on her.
There was a time when she would have kept quiet, but it all hurt too much now.
‘The bus fare to Handsworth for me to go to school was throwing money away – so how come it’s all right her going all the way to Digbeth?’
‘Don’t talk daft,’ Bessie scoffed, taking another large mouthful of cabbage and talking through it. ‘Our Joyce’ll be earning good money, not like you and your fancy books! You should never’ve had anything to do with that waster Johnny Vetch, that was your trouble. Load of airy-fairy nonsense – he’s never been right, that one.’
Joyce was soon full of her job at Bird’s. The firm was expanding. The new entrance to the Devonshire Works was opened by Roy Rogers and Trigger his horse, and Joyce got to pat Trigger’s neck. She started off packing custard powder.
‘It’s not austerity any more,’ she lectured them over tea, as if she owned the factory. ‘It’s the proper stuff.’
‘Bully for it,’ Linda said.
Joyce slammed down her knife.
‘Listen to her – you never give up, do you? You still think you’re above us, don’t you, Miss Lah-di-Dah! I’d like to see you get a decent job when you leave school, like I have. That’ll soon sort you out!’
Chapter Fifty
Linda walked into the house that afternoon, shoved the front door shut with a bang and flung down her bag. Almost immediately she heard a voice she wasn’t expecting – Bessie’s. It didn’t improve her mood. What was Nana doing out here? She hardly ever came out to the estate.
‘Hello, love,’ Violet said.
They were at the kitchen table with Carol. Bessie and Violet were both smoking and there was a saucer of ash in the middle of the table next to the milk bottle. Linda felt all of it grate on her. Rage rose in her for a moment. She remembered the little china jug Lucy’s mom used to pour milk into at teatime in their house. Why couldn’t Mom try a bit harder? Why was the place always such a dump? Why did she have to be born into this bloody family at all? She felt them all staring at her and was about to make a bad-tempered retort when she saw an odd expression in her mother’s eyes, something both wary and sorrowful.
‘Cat got your tongue then?’ Bessie said.
‘Hello,’ Linda said woodenly. She had no warmth left for her grandmother.
Carol was looking at her funny as well, she realized. They all seemed to be waiting for something.
‘D’you want a cup of tea, or some squash?’ Violet said, getting up. She wasn’t long home herself, having picked Carol up from school on the way from Rita’s salon. She looked neat and fresh in her pink dress, hair gleaming and well cut as usual. She was the cleanest thing in the place.
‘Squash,’ Linda said.
‘Forgotten how to say please and thank you, have you?’ Bessie challenged her, aggressively.
Linda ignored her.
‘Here y’are – sit down love,’ Violet said appeasingly. ‘There’s Bourbons as well . . . Pass ’em over, Carol.’
Linda sat down and nibbled at the end of a biscuit. Now, suddenly, no one was looking at her. They were all staring at the blue Formica or at their cups. Something was up, it was obvious. Linda couldn’t stand it any longer.
‘Why’re you here, Nan?’
‘Well, that’s nice.’ Bessie sat back in her chair blowing smoke above her head. ‘Can’t I pay a visit if I want?’
Linda shrugged. I only asked, you old cow, she thought.
‘Nana’s brought some news,’ Violet said cautiously. ‘I mean, not just – you were coming anyway, weren’t you? Only . . .’
Linda felt her heart beat harder. What on earth had happened? Something about the atmosphere in the room was making her very uneasy.
‘Something up with Uncle Clarence?’ she asked. ‘Or Marigold?’
She saw Carol’s eyes fill with tears.
‘No, t’aint that,’ Bessie said.
‘Let me tell her,’ Violet said gently.
Linda saw her mom at her best in those moments. Whatever else she was, she was kind. It was in her eyes, the way she leaned towards her as if wanting to shield her. She laid her hand on Linda’s.
‘Pet, it’s your old friend – Johnny Vetch. He’s . . . well, he’s passed away.’
Linda stared at her. Johnny? Last time she’d been to Johnny he had been full of energy and excitement. Yes, too much excitement. He’d scared her a bit, the way he hadn’t been able to keep still, and talked like a galloping horse.
‘What was up with him?’ Her throat had gone dry.
She saw Violet glance at Bessie, a dreadful knowing look.
‘It’s no good – I’ll just have to say it. Lin – Johnny took his own life. Day before yesterday.’
Linda was about to ask how, where, but then knew she didn’t want to be told. Not yet.
‘Maybe it’s for the best in the end,’ Bessie was saying. ‘He always was a queer bleeder. Square peg. I know that mother of his worried what he’d do when she’d gone. Fancy having a son like that. All that blood. Think how she must’ve felt!’
‘Sssh, Mom,’ Violet protested. ‘Not in front of . . .’ She gestured at the girls.
Linda heard Carol crying beside her and all she could think to do was to turn to her sister and take her in her arms, burying her face in her soft hair.
On Saturday she went to see Johnny’s mother. She was frightened, and when she got off the bus she felt like running away again, but Mrs Vetch had always been kind to her, like Johnny was. She’d seemed grateful someone wanted to see her son. Linda walked along to the little row of terraces where the Vetches’ house slotted in like one card among many in a pack, unremarkable today except for the sadness it contained. Johnny had an older sister who had long been married. He had been the only son of his widowed mother.
‘Oh – hello, bab,’ Mrs Vetch said, seeing her on the doorstep. She didn’t look upset so much as stunned. She was a respectable, sweet-faced lady in her fifties, with a high, melodious voice. She invited Linda in and automatically made tea. They sat in her little front parlour.
‘The funeral’s tomorrow,’ she said, as if she was talking about something far away and nothing to do with her.
She told Linda that she had come downstairs, two mornings after the Coronation, and found Johnny dead in the back room. After she’d gone to bed he had slit his wrists and thrust his hands int
o a washpail of hot water. She crumpled as she said it, starting to shake.
‘He wasn’t right. I knew it. But then he wasn’t so often, was he? You remember, don’t you, dear, what he was like last time you came? On and on, too wound up. I should have known. His mood used to break, like a storm. He tried something like it before – only it was such a long time ago. It was after he left the college, you know . . . I think it was those mountaineers . . .’
‘Everest?’ Linda asked. On the eve of the Coronation they’d announced that Sir Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tensing had reached the top of Mount Everest, the world’s highest peak. They’d actually achieved it on May 29th but the news was saved as an extra jewel for the British crown to add to the Coronation.
‘Yes. On and on, you know what he could be like. Couldn’t leave it alone. I mean it wasn’t easy to be with him when he was like that. I couldn’t stand it sometimes – on and on . . .’ She trailed off sadly, eyes full of tears. ‘So I went to bed early . . .’
As Linda walked back along the road that afternoon her body felt leaden with sorrow for Johnny. She’d loved Johnny, she knew now. The way Carol loved Sister Cathleen at St Gerard’s. She loved him for the vision he had given her of a bigger world that he wanted to explore, with its deserts and jungles and his longing to take a boat up the Amazon river. She could imagine him talking about the mountains, with their white, mysterious peaks wrapped in clouds like homes of the gods. She could hear his voice, see the burning expression in his eyes as he talked about the mountaineers.
Johnny never got his trip to the Amazon basin. Maybe that was the day he knew he never would.
Chapter Fifty-One
After the Coronation, life for Linda went back to the dead-aliveness of school.
