by Lizzie Lane
Janet turned, her eyes blazing with fury. ‘You’re a cad, Henry Claude Pollet. Nothing but a cad!’
He looked fit to burst into laughter. ‘A cad! Why! My dear! How sweetly old-fashioned you are.’
‘I’d call you something else if we weren’t in public,’ hissed Janet as she tried to think of the worse words she’d ever heard. Her mother’s friend Polly came to mind. Now there was a lady who knew a few choice insults.
Back at the table she drank warm champagne while Dorothea prattled on about how she and Henry would get married in June next year, or perhaps the year after that. ‘Coronation Year will certainly be a year to remember,’ she trilled tipsily, her head gradually sinking onto Henry’s shoulder, her eyes looking up into his as her hand slid beneath the table.
Face pink with embarrassment, Janet looked swiftly away.
Coronation Year would most certainly be a time to remember as far as she was concerned too and everything about it seemed to concern sex. But somehow little of what was said or done by her companions was very important. In an odd way what had happened made her feel outside their circle, outside of herself. She was in company yet alone.
Stephen, now almost as bubbly as the many glasses of champagne he’d consumed, suddenly grabbed her hand and held it to his lips. ‘I think I love you, Janet. How about us getting married? We could make it a double wedding, my darling. What do you say?’
Janet looked at Dorothea who was still looking up at Henry and smiling in a secretive, stupid way. Henry himself appeared to be viewing the gathering through half-lowered lids, his mouth slightly open and his breathing interspersed with short, high-pitched gasps of delight.
The sight of them and what they were doing was offensive enough. Mention of a double white wedding with friends who seemed suddenly like strangers was even worse.
‘Stephen, you’re drunk.’
‘Ah!’ he said wagging his finger. ‘Ah! But I may be drunk now, but tomorrow I will be again the sort of chap you’ve always known me to be. To use that old-fashioned term—’
‘A pompous ass! Seems I’m good at using old-fashioned terms,’ she said angrily, rising from the table just as Henry sighed heavily in a loud and climactic manner.
She couldn’t look at him and didn’t bother to say another word. The ladies’ lavatories offered sanctuary, if only for a few minutes.
Bunching her skirts up around her, she sat in a cubicle, closed her eyes, and thought about what she should do next. The whole country was celebrating the Coronation, but she was feeling wretched and confused. Why couldn’t it have been Dorothea who’d got accosted on her way home from the pictures? She probably wouldn’t have minded too much. No, that was unfair. Behind closed lids she remembered how childishly provocative she’d been with the American boys during the war. If she’d been older her virginity would have gone then. When had she made the decision to wait until she was married? The answer to that brought back a memory from just after the war: a darkened bedroom, two bodies locked in sexual intercourse … Her mother was to blame and didn’t even know it.
Once she had regained some self-control she went back out into the heaving throng of people, some of whom were singing ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ in direct opposition to another faction who preferred to render ‘There’ll Always Be An England’.
Ball gowns, mostly in white, the one patriotic colour the majority of women possessed, whirled around the dance floor. Military uniforms were as numerous as evening suits, some still smelling of mothballs after a few years sitting in the wardrobe.
Loud voices discussed the pros and cons of the new age, principally with regard to the spawning of hundreds of television sets at pretty reasonable prices.
‘Did you see it? Did you see it on television?’
‘Yes! Wasn’t it marvellous!’
‘I heard it on radio …’
Someone grabbed her arm. ‘Come and dance!’
‘No!’ She shook him off, skirted the dance floor and headed for the bar where the crowd seemed less concentrated.
Through the throng of people, clouded by the smoke of hundreds of cigarettes and cigars, she saw one man standing alone. Nice face, she thought. He smiled at her. She found herself smiling back and stopped it immediately. What if he thought she was fast? She looked away. He’d lose interest. She looked back at him. His eyes were still on her. It was a steadfast look, almost as if he’d been expecting her to look at him again.
She didn’t particularly want a drink and did think about leaving.
You’d be a coward, said a small voice in her head.
The voice was right. She wondered whose voice it was: hers or Edna’s.
Summoning all the willpower she possessed, she approached the bar. She would buy a drink. If she felt really brave she would enquire what such a handsome man was doing all alone on Coronation Night.
Head high and a frozen smile on her face she walked over to him.
His gaze never left her. Ex-military, she thought judging by the laid-back shoulders and his unyielding gaze. He moved aside so she had a place at the bar.
‘Good evening, miss. Can I get you anything?’
She looked him up and down. Was he being fresh? Well, she was having none of that! She forced herself to sound imperious. ‘I beg your pardon, young man?’
He slid a silver tray from off the bar, tucked it under his arm and bowed his head in a stiff, slightly continental manner.
Janet realized her mistake immediately. He was a waiter.
‘At your service, miss.’
She regained her composure although she felt like an idiot. ‘Gin and tonic please.’
What a fool! Fancy thinking he was a guest at the ball! But she mustn’t let it show. Besides it was hardly an unreasonable mistake. The chap wore a black suit, white shirt and bow tie – not really such a difference from the men who had bought tickets to attend and looked stiffer than he did with their tailor-made suits. He was good-looking, but his accent unnerved her.
Her drink was placed in front of her. ‘One shilling and sixpence please, miss.’
It was only a few words more than he’d said before, but enough to let her know that he was foreign. She rummaged hurriedly in her purse, wanting to hand him the money as quickly as possible so he would go away and she wouldn’t hear him speak again. She pulled out a pound note. ‘It’s all the change I have.’
He took it, reached into the till behind him, then turned back to her. ‘I am sorry, miss. I have no change.’
‘I’ll see if one of my friends has some.’ She looked for Dorothea, saw Henry on his way to the gents, but chose not to call to him.
‘Can I help?’
A man standing beside her, obviously the worse for wear, wound his arm around her, his fingers purposely grazing the edge of her left bosom.
‘I’ll do you a deal, little lady. You give me a kiss and I’ll buy you a drink. How’s that?’ His mouth expelled a cloud of alcoholic fumes into her face.
Grimacing, she turned her head and tried to shrug his arm away and unpeel his groping fingers with her own. It didn’t work.
He leaned closer, his weight heavy upon her right shoulder. ‘Now come on, little lady – just a kiss. That’s not too much to give away, is it?’
He was laughing in her face. A gold tooth flashed at the back of his mouth. His breath was pure malt whisky and his neck smelled of eau de cologne.
‘Leave me alone!’ She was vaguely aware that the waiter was doing something with money overflowing from a saucer on the back bar. She tried again to push the drunk away before realizing that the waiter had hold of one of the man’s arms.
‘Sir. The lady’s drink has been paid for and she does not require your attentions.’ His voice was as steady as his gaze.
The man’s drunken lust turned to anger. His bloodshot eyes flickered blearily as he faced the waiter. ‘Get your hands off me, you foreign bastard! What are you doing over here anyway? Taking our jobs! Raping our women! Is this what we f
ought a war for?’
The drunk’s expression was ugly.
Sensing violence, Janet stepped back.
The waiter grabbed the man by both lapels, his eyes dark with anger, his words shooting like bullets. ‘Freedom! That’s what we fought for! But some of us didn’t get it. We were betrayed. It was the likes of you that sold my country to Stalin!’
Wide-eyed and scared, Janet looked around for help. Thankfully the prospect of a scuffle was swiftly terminated. The foxtrot had ended. A deluge of dancers flowed from the floor and descended on the bar.
Regardless of a full glass and the fact that she’d handed over a pound note and received no change, Janet fled. She wanted to go home. She wanted to be safe.
Dorothea caught her just as she collected her stole from the cloakroom. ‘You’re not going, are you?’ She had a tight expression on her face and her cheeks were flushed.
‘I am indeed.’
‘Oh goodness. We do look miserable, don’t we?’
‘Yes, we do.’ Why did she have to speak to her as if she were a pet parrot?
Dorothea wriggled and rubbed at her hips. ‘I’ve got a good excuse. My girdle’s killing me. I’d take it off, but my stockings would fall down.’
Janet wasn’t interested. ‘I’m going.’ Tonight she chose to go home alone.
She made to push past. She didn’t want to hear about Dorothea’s foundation garments and she didn’t want to look into her face and remember what she’d been doing with Henry in a public place. The fact that her hand had been beneath the table was beside the point.
Dorothea was persistent. ‘Janet! How could you! Poor Stephen! He’s terribly upset, you know.’
‘How dreadful.’
Dorothea talked into her beaded evening bag as she poked around at the contents with one long finger. ‘What a shame! You seemed so well suited. Everyone thought so.’
She lit a cigarette after fixing it into her tortoiseshell holder. She offered one to Janet, who shook her head. Smoke curled from between Dorothea’s bright red lips. She waved the cigarette holder like the conductor of the London Philharmonic and brought one of Charlotte’s favourite sayings to mind. Smoking is a social prop. It’s a weakness. I am not weak.
Dorothea was saying, ‘He’s not a bad catch, you know.’
‘Then you marry him.’
Dorothea sniggered like some comedian in an end of the pier show. ‘I would if I could. But Henry and Stephen? They call that bigamy, don’t they? Mind you,’ she dug her elbow into Janet’s arm, ‘two men in one bed! That would be fun.’
Janet managed a strained smile as she flung her stole around her shoulders, anxious to be as far away from both Henry and Stephen as possible. There was only one problem. ‘I’m going home now. Have you got any money for the taxi? I gave the pound note I had reserved to the waiter.’
Dorothea’s eyebrows soared skywards. ‘You drank that much!’
She explained things in the sort of tone her mother would have used. ‘I had one drink. He didn’t have any change. Then I dropped my purse. It must have fallen out.’
The excuse was accepted and two half crowns were handed over. Dorothea shook her head forlornly. ‘Well, fancy going home this early on Coronation Night. You may never see such a colourful spectacle again, darling.’
Janet dropped the money into her purse. ‘Never mind. There’s always Rodgers and Hammerstein.’ She didn’t mention Doris Day and the film they’d seen, one she was never likely to forget.
But Dorothea was adamant.
‘Oh, come on.’ She grabbed Janet’s arm and almost frogmarched her back into the cloakroom. She wriggled provocatively. ‘You can at least give me a hand with this girdle. It’s got to come off.’
Janet brushed her arm away. Her voice was cutting. ‘Get Henry to give you a hand. I hear he’s had plenty of experience!’
‘Janet! Don’t go!’
She made for the exit. People were milling around in the reception hall, a richly decorated place of wood panelling and brass handrails. She pushed her way to the front doors, stepped on someone’s foot and glanced back over her shoulder to offer an apology. As she did so she espied the waiter who had interceded between her and the drunk.
‘Miss! Miss!’
He was waving his hand high in the air. Did he want her gratitude? Well, he’d be out of luck. A long line of taxis waited outside and she got into the first one and slammed the door behind her.
‘Excuse me, but I think I was here first.’
She was speechless. What an idiot! She’d been in such a hurry to escape the crowd and, more specifically, the waiter and his foreign accent, that she hadn’t noticed the taxi was already occupied.
‘I have to have this cab,’ she blurted and threw a nervous glance out of the cab’s back window. The waiter was standing on the edge of the pavement, a confused, crestfallen expression on his face. A piece of paper fluttered from his raised hand. He was waving her pound note in the air.
The other occupant of the cab followed her gaze and did an immediate appraisal of the situation whilst the cab driver regarded them over his shoulder, patient amusement flickering over his face.
‘Obviously I have acquired a lady in distress. Drive on, cabbie.’
‘Where to, chum?’
‘Just drive. I’ll let you know where Miss …’ He paused expectantly.
Janet was nervous. She was in a cab with a strange man. After reminding herself that the cab driver was a witness to any difficult situation that might arise, she found her voice. ‘Hennessey-White. Janet Hennessey-White.’
The cab pulled away. The man sitting beside her settled himself more comfortably, crossing one leg casually over the other. She felt his eyes upon her, but chose not to look at him.
‘Your father, wouldn’t be David Hennessey-White, would he?’
She stopped staring out of the window and looked at him instead.
He was dark-haired, dark-eyed and his smile seemed to span the bottom half of his face. He introduced himself. ‘Jonathan Driver.’ His face was familiar. ‘We met when you were with him at a hospital charity benefit. He introduced us.’
It was as if a spell had been broken. ‘Oh yes!’ She knew him and so did her father. Suddenly she felt safe.
‘Wasn’t the party to your liking?’ he asked. She shook her head. ‘Not really. Too much noise. Too many drunks.’
‘And that was just the women?’ His smile broadened. Janet saw the joke and suddenly found it easy to laugh. ‘Ladies on the loose. Snooty about street parties, but better at behaving badly than any factory girl.’
‘A wise observation that I have to agree with.’ Janet felt herself wanting to continue the conversation. ‘So why did you leave?’
He shrugged. ‘I found myself sober and alone. How can you celebrate anything by yourself?’
The taxi driver chose that moment to interrupt. ‘Excuse me, chum. We’re on Queens Road. Where do you wanna go now?’
‘Well?’ said Janet’s fellow passenger. ‘Shall we have our own party? I know a coffee bar on the corner of Penn Street that keeps very odd hours and it has a jukebox. Do you like modern music?’
‘Like Doris Day?’ Janet said grimly.
He laughed loudly, throwing back his head and showing a mouthful of perfectly white teeth.
‘Certainly not Doris Day. In my opinion she’s just too sugary for words. I like this new stuff from Bill Haley and Jerry Lee Lewis. Have you heard of them?’
‘Yes.’
She had. Bill Haley sang ‘Rock Around the Clock’. Jerry Lee Lewis sang … she couldn’t remember, but oh boy, was she interested. Different music, a different kind of person. He was taking her to a place that was ushering in a different era.
Jonathan directed the cab driver to the coffee bar and paid the fare when they got there. If occurred to her to offer to pay her half. She didn’t want him getting any ideas. Then she remembered that Dorothea had only given her enough money to get home. From the coffee bar to C
lifton wasn’t that far, but enough to take care of the money she had.
Frothy coffee was served in cups the size of soup dishes on trendy metal tables with red Formica tops that were slotted into booths between red vinyl bench seats. The air steamed as much as the chrome-plated coffee machine that hissed like a railway engine each time a fresh cup of coffee was drawn off. Pat Boone was crooning ‘Love Letters in the Sand’ when they first sat down. A few minutes later and the Wurlitzer, a splendid affair of multicoloured plastic, sparkling chrome and pink neon, flipped onto Nat King Cole and ‘The Twelfth of Never’.
What a fool she felt sitting there in a full-length skirt with enough net to curtain a small house. Curious eyes had scrutinized them on entering, but turned away once they’d attained the privacy of the booth, though Janet still looked at them, fascinated by their make-up, their clothes, their hairstyles.
‘I like ponytails, and those skirts and sweaters,’ she said wistfully, then suddenly realized she must sound silly, even weak. She didn’t want him to think that. ‘But I’m not frivolous, you understand!’
He had a look on his face that she couldn’t quite interpret, initial surprise swiftly turning to interest. ‘You’re a doctor’s daughter. You couldn’t possibly be frivolous.’
It was the right thing to say. She became less defensive. ‘So we met at a charity event. I take it you’re a doctor.’ She turned in her top lip in order to suck away a residue of milky froth.
He sat straight and said proudly, ‘Absolutely! I work at the sanatorium at Pucklechurch.’
Janet controlled a shudder. ‘Contagious disease?’
‘Polio actually, though years ago it was used for TB sufferers. And you work in paediatrics, I believe?’
She nodded. ‘But only as a secretary.’
‘You sound as if you’re apologizing for not following in your father’s footsteps.’
‘My brother Geoffrey is expected to do that, though I’m not sure it’s ever likely to happen.’
‘Shame. It’s a great profession. I don’t think there is any other that is quite so satisfying.’ His sincerity was palpable. He seemed to glow as if she had pressed a button that sent a wave of electricity through his body.
