Coronation Wives

by Lizzie Lane

  Edna overheard Colin’s mother ask Charlotte how her children were getting on.

  ‘Geoffrey’s enjoying university very much. And Janet loves her job at the hospital’

  ‘I always thought your Geoffrey wanted to be a soldier,’ Polly said as she took Charlotte’s empty teacup.

  ‘I didn’t want him to be. Neither did David. He wanted him to be a doctor.’

  ‘How’s Janet?’ asked Edna from behind a tray of tea, bread and butter plus a pot of strawberry jam.

  ‘Fine,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Good,’ said Edna, smiled and wished she didn’t know that Janet was far from fine.

  ‘Who’s for jelly?’ Polly in her Pearly King costume, an obvious choice for someone who favoured wearing black and white, had a large glass bowl jammed under her arm and close to her bosom. Rows of podgy little hands shot into the air.

  ‘Not if yer gonna dip yer titty in it,’ said Carol, her hands on her hips and a perky tilt to her chin. The comment earned her a clipped ear.

  The house in Kingscott Avenue was blessed with a garage and an inside toilet and bathroom located at the top of the stairs. A television sat like a small cupboard in one corner of the room and was drawing plenty of admiring glances and perhaps a little envy from some quarters.

  ‘Puts me in mind of a bloody gert eye watching me,’ said Polly between ladling out jelly and readjusting the bowl beneath her generous breast.

  ‘I can’t wait to see the Coronation,’ said Edna, her face as bright as any child’s and her eyes gleaming. ‘Fancy being able to see the Queen and Westminster Abbey in my own living room. It’s a miracle, it really is. I’ve invited some of the neighbours.’

  ‘Ain’t they got radios?’ asked Polly. Edna ignored the sarcasm and tried again. ‘It’ll be quite a little party. You can come yourself if you like.’

  ‘Don’t need to, do I? I’ll be seeing the Coronation on the big screen up the Broadway. That’s the great thing about working in a picture ’ouse. They’ll be showing it for days after and I’ll get to know every single detail’

  Edna persisted. ‘But it’s better on the day. In fact it’ll be quite a party.’

  ‘You just said that.’

  Edna blushed. ‘I’m sorry, I just thought—’

  ‘Don’t bother. We’re ’avin’ a street party on the night. I got a lot of stuff to get ready. Anyway I prefer a bigger screen. Like I said, I can see it all at the pictures.’

  Charlotte, who had heard the conversation, made a big thing of wiping Pamela’s face. It wasn’t really that bad, but she had to hide her smile. She knew her friends so well. Edna was being generous, longing to share her enthusiasm for the television set with anyone. But Polly was proud. She had no intention of appearing hard done by.

  Polly’s daughter Carol chose that moment to push between Edna and her mother. ‘Got any more of that fruitcake?’

  Polly slammed a piece on her daughter’s plate. ‘There you are.’

  Carol inspected it, turning it this way and that. ‘It ain’t got no cherry.’

  ‘No,’ sniggered Polly and whispered close to Charlotte’s ear, ‘an’ neither have I.’

  Edna heard her and looked shocked. ‘Polly!’

  Charlotte pretended she hadn’t heard. Polly liked to shock people. It was part of her armoury. Instead she turned to Edna’s parents who were sitting in the armchairs, tea plates balanced on knees, tea grimly raised to unsmiling lips. They were strangely quiet, Edna’s father glancing nervously at his wife as though waiting for her to stand up and put a stop to the merriment. At one time she might very well have done. Her sharp eyes never missed a thing.

  If something odd was going on between the old pair, all those gathered took little notice. This was the children’s time.

  Charlotte asked them if they’d like more tea. Edna’s father held out his cup. Edna’s mother looked at her as though she was speaking a foreign language.

  ‘There you are.’ Charlotte handed Mr Burbage a piece of cake and tried again with Edna’s mother. ‘What about you, Mrs Burbage?’

  ‘I think she’d like a piece,’ said Edna’s father, his eyes darting nervously from one woman to the other.

  Up at the table, Polly’s Aunty Meg, who had just come in from washing dishes, raised the lid on the teapot. ‘We need a fresh brew, I think.’

  Edna’s mother pushed past Charlotte and snatched the teapot from beneath Meg’s nose. ‘That’s my job!’

  Taken aback, Meg asked, ‘Are you sure?’

  Mrs Burbage was adamant. ‘It’s my turn to make tea now. Mother did it this morning. Now it’s my turn.’

  Meg frowned and muttered, ‘Mother? Your mother’s been dead for years.’ She raised her eyebrows in Edna’s direction. Edna purposely ignored her. Meg shrugged her shoulders. Who could blame her? Ethel Burbage had always been a cow.

  ‘Silly old bat,’ said Polly, who was refilling the empty dish of a little lad with a very large appetite.

  Looking anxious, Edna’s father got to his feet. Aunty Meg placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him gently back into his chair. ‘You sit there. I’ll go out an’ give ’er a hand.’ She turned to Edna. ‘Your gran died ten years ago, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought so.’

  Meg made her way to what she still called a scullery where a pale green kitchen cabinet stood to the right of the draining board. Ethel Burbage was bent over the sink ladling tea into a dark brown teapot. ‘One for Mum, one for Dad, one for Uncle Stan and one for the pot.’

  As Meg watched she became aware that Charlotte had joined her. They stood silently as Edna’s mother tipped the slops into the pot and promptly filled the whole thing up with cold water from the tap.

  Meg whispered against Charlotte’s ear. ‘I think she’s going doolally.’

  ‘She would choose today,’ Edna said angrily as she came out into the kitchen for a fresh tray of cake.

  Meg took the brown pot gently but firmly out of the other woman’s grasp and said, ‘Ethel! What the bloody ’ell are you thinking of? This pot’s cold. P’raps the gas is gone. We’d better make another then, ain’t we?’

  Edna turned her back on the scene and went back into the living room. She swallowed her anger and exchanged a brief look with her father. His anxious expression aroused her sympathy though did nothing for the simmering resentment she’d felt for her mother all these years.

  ‘Aunty Meg’s giving her a hand,’ she said matter of factly. She just couldn’t bring herself to talk about her mother in soft, gentle tones. Selfish and spiteful suited much better. Turn away, she told herself, dish out some more cake.

  Polly gave her a hand. ‘Not right, is she?’ she said, making no effort to be tactful.

  ‘It’s been going on a while,’ said Edna and described the first time she’d realized that her mother was not her old self. ‘She told us that her granny was making her a grey scarf for Christmas and that they would match the gloves she was wearing. She seemed oblivious to the fact that the temperature was in the eighties and climbing.’

  Edna had hoped it would be explanation enough. Polly persisted. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing. There’s nothing I can do. I have three children and a husband to think about.’

  Edna pushed the problem to the back of her mind. This was Pamela’s birthday. The child was strapped into her high chair as Edna spooned jelly into her open mouth while pondering past disappointments rather than any pity she might feel for her mother.

  A spoon hammering against the side of the chair interrupted her concentration. A freckled face framed by sandy hair looked up at her. ‘Where’s Daddy?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Getting dressed, of course,’ said Susan. The eldest at seven, she looked more like her mother although she had also inherited her father’s amiable confidence and his unruly thatch of gingery fair hair.

  Peter frowned and, looking slightly worried, whispered, ‘Is he going to wear a dress
like yours, Mum?’

  Susan interjected in her usual knowledgeable manner. ‘He’s going to put on fancy dress, you silly boy. It’s going to be a very special dress.’

  Polly nudged Edna in the ribs. ‘Not dressed as Widow Twanky, is he?’

  Edna laughed. ‘Of course not. He won’t be wearing a dress.’ She beamed at the small faces around the table. ‘He’ll look bright and merry – just like us!’

  All the children were wearing different outfits, most made from crepe paper in the appropriate colours of red, white and blue. Edna was dressed in a gingham dress with puff sleeves. She wore her hair in pigtails ending in big white bows, which made her feel very girlish even though she was in her early thirties and a mother. Today was magical. Tomorrow would be even better because everyone would be dressing up, partying and toasting the new queen with anything drinkable.

  Charlotte was dressed in something long, made of mauve lamé and possibly dating from before the First World War. Her hair was covered by a beaded cap and when she wasn’t dishing out jelly she was carrying an ebony cigarette holder.

  ‘And before you ask I’m supposed to be Mata Hari,’ she informed Polly.

  ‘I see.’ Polly turned to Edna. ‘Obviously you’re Alice in Wonderland.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said Edna, embarrassed because she’d considered her outfit so obvious and badly wanted both today and tomorrow to be a great success.

  Polly looked surprised, but also took wicked pleasure from Edna’s discomfort. ‘Go on then. Tell me who you’re supposed to be.’

  Before Edna could explain a loud clattering and clanking sound came down the stairs and along the hall. The door suddenly burst open and half a dozen small voices squealed with delight.

  All eyes turned to where Colin Smith filled the frame. They gasped in amazement. Colin’s body and arms were covered in cardboard that had been painted battleship grey to resemble metal. The colander on his head – used mostly for straining dried peas that turned to a mush when they were cooked – was made of real metal. So, unfortunately, were the shiny legs sticking out of what remained of his Royal Navy shorts (tropical-issue). They’d once been white, but were now grey and toned with the rest of his outfit. A host of metal kitchen utensils dangled and jangled from his waist.

  Polly sighed knowingly. ‘Ah! The Tin Man!’ She grinned at Edna. ‘And Dorothy!’

  ‘I’m the Tin Man and I’m going to take you all to find the Wizard of Oz,’ Colin exclaimed loudly.

  Even Edna’s father smiled as the children, including Polly’s daughter Carol, abandoned quivering jellies and bright pink blancmange. Like a wave of noisy gulls they fell off their chairs and surrounded him. A flock of small voices squealed with delight.

  Colin’s parents locked hands, their eyes moist.

  Meg chose that moment to come in with the teapot. Ethel breezed in behind her carrying a tray of cups. She looked a lot calmer, but it didn’t last long. Instead of placing them on the table she stopped in her tracks and stared at Colin. Suddenly she screamed, lifted the tray and let it fly.

  ‘Get out! Get out!’

  Cups flew everywhere. The tray hit Colin in the chest and for a moment he wobbled before he managed to grab the door surround.

  Edna ran to his side, catching him as he toppled.

  The rest of the room was pandemonium, children crying and adults trying to calm things down. Ethel Burbage crouched between two chairs, fingers in her ears and eyes tightly closed.

  Charlotte leaned over her. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Burbage. It’s only Colin in his costume.’

  Meg bent down beside her. ‘Now there’s a bloody awful way to carry on, Ethel. It’s only yer son-in-law dressed up for the kiddies’ party. Who did you think it was, aye? Boris bloody Karloff?’

  ‘Storks have got long legs. He’s got long legs and I don’t want to have a baby. I don’t know how it got there. Besides, I’ve changed my mind!’

  ‘What’s she on about?’ asked Polly.

  Charlotte touched her arm. ‘She thinks Colin is a stork.’

  Polly looked dumbstruck.

  ‘His legs,’ mouthed Charlotte. ‘She thinks she’s about to have a baby. Am I right, Meg?’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Meg. ‘Now you are going back a bit.’

  Charlotte went on. ‘She thinks she’s about to give birth and she’s frightened because no one’s told her anything about it and she’s not sure how it got there.’

  ‘It wasn’t considered nice to discuss things like that in our day,’ said Meg.

  ‘Still isn’t for some,’ Polly added.

  Meg sighed. “We was told the stork brought it or it came from out our belly button. It was a bloody big shock when you found out the truth, I can tell you. For some it was even more of a shock when they found out how it got in! Leave her to me,’ she added to Charlotte. ‘I’ve seen this before.’ Her face was grave.

  For once Charlotte was grateful not to take charge of a situation. She stood up and smoothed her dress down over her hips.

  ‘She’ll be all right.’ She patted Edna’s arm.

  Edna shrugged and said bitterly, ‘I don’t care whether she is or isn’t! I wanted today to be perfect. My mother’s spoilt it, just as she’s spoilt everything in my life.’

  Chapter Six

  On the morning of Coronation Day Polly fixed a paper crown onto her daughter’s golden curls with the help of Aunty Meg’s spikiest hairpins. Carol made faces, wincing each time a pin was used.

  Polly gave her a good shake. ‘Stop wriggling, you little mare!’

  Carol pouted and folded her arms. ‘Why’ve I got to wear this bloody thing anyway? I wore it yesterday.’

  Polly turned her round to face her. ‘Because you’ve got to be the best.’ Impatiently she smoothed the child’s wild curls into some sort of order. ‘And you won’t be if you swear like that. I don’t know where the bl—’ She stopped herself from using the same word and made a mental note to mend her own ways, which she’d promised to do a thousand times before. ‘Yesterday doesn’t count,’ she went on. ‘Today does. This street’s going to win the prize for ’avin’ the best Coronation costumes of all – an’ the best decorations.’

  And it can do with all the help it can bloody get, she thought. Truth was, she didn’t think they had a cat in hell’s chance. Red-brick council houses, front doors the same green as the buses and metal-framed windows running with condensation, were the devil’s own work to make jolly. She vaguely wondered how the celebrations for the Coronation were going in Australia.

  That sunny poster viewed on a damp day in England shone brightly in her mind; A new country for ten pounds each. Once Billy was in the mood …

  ‘Can I go swimming on Saturday?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Not another Coronation!’

  ‘No, not another Coronation. You gets things from swimming baths like bad legs and bad arms – and worse.’

  ‘Like Geraldine Harvey?’ Carol bobbed away and went round the room dragging one leg behind her as she hopped forward. ‘She walks like this ’cos she’s got irons up ’er legs.’

  ‘That’s why yer not goin’ swimming.’ The paper hat fell over her eyes. ‘Damn!’ Polly grabbed her arm as she loped past and straightened the hat with the aid of a few more hairgrips.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Keep still.’

  Carol brightened. ‘Is Aunty Meg coming to the party?’

  Polly nodded. ‘You know she is. She’s upstairs putting on her costume.’ Meg was going to be wearing her Pearly Queen outfit from yesterday. Polly would again be her male escort only today she’d added a moustache by virtue of a line of black lead scrolled along her top lip.

  ‘Is Dad coming to the party?’

  Polly gritted her teeth and looked at the clock. ‘He’d bloody well better be.’

  Charlotte was getting ready to help judge the best street party in the whole of Bristol. A local newspaper was sponsoring the event and she felt very proud that they’d asked
her to help adjudicate.

  She wore a new dress of royal blue with a cinched-in waist and a slimline skirt with a kick-pleat at the back that reached to mid-calf. Charlotte prided herself that, despite having just had her forty-seventh birthday, her figure had not yet gone to seed. In an effort to add a touch of patriotic fervour, she pinned a bunch of bright red cherries to her lapel then finished the outfit with white gloves and a matching handbag. Her shoes were navy blue. She twirled in front of the mirror.

  David gave her a quick peck on the cheek. ‘You look wonderful, darling.’

  ‘You could come with me,’ she said brightly.

  David stopped by the door, a copy of The Times tucked beneath his arm. He looked tense. ‘I thought you had enough judges? And I do have to collect Geoffrey from Temple Meads.’

  ‘You could pick him up from the station and then keep me company,’ she said as she fixed the red straw hat to her head, its shape similar to an upside down dinner plate.

  David checked his watch. ‘I thought Janet was going with you.’

  ‘She has a headache again. Do you think there’s anything seriously wrong with her?’

  ‘How can I tell? The headache disappears the moment I mention examining her.’

  ‘Still, she might be better by now.’

  Charlotte had arranged to meet the other judges at eleven o’clock at the Mansion House. The Lord Mayor would be attending along with the High Sheriff of Bristol and other notable dignitaries including the editor of the local newspaper group. Speeches would be read, tea and cakes would be on offer and there might – depending on the generosity of Harveys, the famous wine merchants – even be a little sweet sherry with which to toast the incoming monarch.

  Charlotte glanced at her watch as she went up the stairs. Ten thirty. The breakfast tray Mrs Grey had taken up to Janet’s room earlier that morning was still outside the door.

  Charlotte knocked. ‘Janet? Are you up to keeping me company, darling, or will you go with your father to fetch Geoffrey?’

  There was a moment of silence before Janet answered. ‘I’d rather stay here.’

  Janet’s voice seemed a little terse and although her daughter’s recurring headaches worried her, Charlotte took her duties to the city very seriously.