Coronation Wives

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘There!’ she exclaimed as the dried paint finally flaked away and the window swung open. A stiff breeze blew across the roofs of the city. The old man squinted against it, his hair floating like mist around his head.

  Janet bent over him. ‘Is that better?’

  He closed his eyes. If he were taking deep breaths it was hardly noticeable. The whole man seemed little more than dressing gown and pyjamas. Only skin and sinew held his bones together. Lines curved from the sides of his closed eyes, creased his cheeks, drooped like muddied ruts from the sides of his mouth and formed a criss-cross pattern, like a small chessboard, over his chin. An old man now, concerned only about his garden, but what had he looked like during his youth? she wondered. Had his garden been as important to him way back then as it was now? And what sort of life had he planned as a young man? Had everything gone according to plan? Had unforeseen events occurred just as it had in her life?

  She hadn’t noticed that he’d stopped breathing. Perhaps she’d been too wrapped up in her own thoughts, but something in his face had definitely changed. Was it her imagination or was he paler than he had been? Had his lips turned blue? Had his eyes closed for ever?

  Gently she shook his arm. ‘Sir?’ She had forgotten to ask his name, but wished she had. People responded more easily to their names than they did to formal address. ‘Sir? Can you hear me?’ She shook him again. His eyes remained shut. His mouth dropped open and a sound like the cackle of a strangled cockerel erupted from his throat. “Wake up! Wake up!’

  Someone in uniform pushed her aside. ‘Mr Sharpies! I’ve been looking for you.’

  A ward sister, trimly pristine in royal blue dress and diaphanous white veil, bent over the man. ‘Mr Sharpies! Mr Sharpies!’

  Janet stood helplessly as the man’s limp wrist was checked for a pulse. Even before the ward sister told her it was so, she knew he was dead.

  The ward sister straightened. ‘How did he get here?’

  Janet could only tell the truth. ‘I pushed him. He wanted some fresh air.’

  Dark brows frowned at her. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

  Janet nodded. ‘I work in the secretarial unit.’

  ‘Oh dear. This could cause problems. You know I have to make a report, don’t you? I’ll have to mention that I couldn’t find him and that you’d wheeled him off. You shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘Wasn’t he dying anyway?’

  The ward sister sighed apologetically and shrugged her shoulders. ‘That’s not the point. I wasn’t there when it happened and you were. I’m sorry.’

  Judging by her voice and her regrets at having to report the matter, this was a woman who cared for her charges. Janet couldn’t possibly be mad at her.

  ‘I had to do it,’ Janet explained. ‘He was missing his garden. I think that when the fresh air hit him he imagined he was back there again. I was just trying to help.’

  ‘I know. Mr Sharpies loved his garden. But that’s not the point.’

  Miss Argyle stood behind the huge cherrywood desk in the office of the Chief Medical Officer. He had gone to play golf that afternoon, but not before discussing a suitable reprimand for Janet’s misdemeanour.

  Grace Argyle’s backside amply filled the big leather chair. She indicated that Janet be seated in the small chair purposely placed by her in front of the desk. It was modern, low and had thin metal legs and no arms. Janet found herself looking up at Grace Argyle and felt intimidated – which was exactly how Miss Argyle wanted her to feel. First, her ‘crime’ was read out in full. At last Grace Argyle looked with ungracious disapproval down her long nose and sniffed so forcibly that her nostrils momentarily disappeared. She stated, ‘We expect an apology.’

  We! It was almost as though she were part of the hospital board, some kind of medical royalty. What a nerve! All the same, this was no time for her resentment to show. She had to apologize.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ sighed Janet, her gaze fixed on the floor. ‘I didn’t think, and Mr Sharpies so wanted—’

  ‘Mr Sharpies? Who, might I ask, is Mr Sharpies?’

  Surprised, Janet looked up at her. ‘The old man … the man who died.’

  ‘Oh!’ Grace Argyle shuffled her papers, studied where necessary, and then readjusted her spectacles. ‘Ah yes. Indeed that was his name.’

  Good grief! This woman had worked at the hospital for thirty years yet Janet doubted whether she actually regarded the names on the medical records and reports as people. Her own attitude was very different. Every day she noted the names, ages and ailments of people, even checked if they’d got better and gone home. It was none of her concern really, but she just couldn’t help it.

  ‘It is not for you to interfere or interact in any way with hospital patients. There are nurses and doctors aplenty for that. Take note, Miss Hennessey-White, you are a secretary and are here purely to carry out the day-to-day tasks that the position calls for. Your father may be a doctor, but you, young woman, are not!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Janet said again, longing for the ordeal to be over before she choked on the amount of humble pie Miss Argyle expected her to swallow.

  ‘So you should be. However,’ she went on, ‘this is not the first time you have violated hospital regulations. Therefore, in order to remove temptation – or rather – to remove you from temptation, it has been decided that you are transferred to the Housekeeping and Catering Department.’

  Janet couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Housekeeping and Catering?’ Surely she’d heard wrong.

  ‘Housekeeping and Catering,’ Miss Argyle repeated along with another powerful sniff up her supercilious nostrils.

  Janet went limp in her chair.

  ‘In future you will be dealing with the day-to-day support tasks of the hospital – clothing, bedding – that sort of thing. Seamstresses and kitchen assistants make up most of the staff in that department.’

  The most menial of staff. That she could cope with. But it was not a medical department. Janet was numb. Taking an interest in patient welfare had always helped lessen the routine boredom of the job.

  ‘Please,’ she implored getting to her feet and leaning over the desk, ‘please, Grace, don’t send me down there. I promise I won’t—’

  Grace Argyle sprang to her feet. ‘Miss Argyle to you, Miss Hennessey-White!’

  The matter was settled. Dorothea helped her move her things, the tip-tapping of her high-heeled shoes running alongside Janet as she marched close-lipped to her new domain, her eyes staring straight ahead.

  ‘We’ll still see each other at tea break and lunchtime,’ Dorothea was saying. ‘Nothing’s going to alter that much.’

  Through clenched teeth Janet said, ‘It is for me!’

  ‘It’s just another office,’ Dorothea went on in as optimistic a tone as she could muster, desperate to make Janet feel better. ‘One office is very like another,’ she said brightly.

  The Head Housekeeper pointed to the door of Janet’s new office. ‘Just there,’ she said then scurried off as if she had far better to do than instruct a new typist where the laundry lists and invoices were typed.

  Janet came to a standstill in the doorway of her new office. Her heart sank as she took in the grim surroundings. Crestfallen, she looked at Dorothea. ‘What were you saying about one office being much like another?’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  The pair of them stood silently staring into a room with brown-varnished walls. The window was as large as the one through which Janet had frequently admired the view. Unfortunately it looked out on a place of boxes and bins where delivery vehicles unloaded kitchen supplies and sluice room appliances. Surely something better must happen?

  A few days later a message came to her from Jonathan via the message pad on the hall table. It asked her to meet him on the following Tuesday night at the Rockabilly Coffee Bar in Regents Street, Clifton. He did not leave a return telephone number. Refusing was obviously not an option. Feeling down in the mouth, but disinclined to say no, she pul
led a new pale blue sweater over her head, slid into a pair of blue gingham matador pants and poked her toes into a pair of high-heeled mules. To complete the picture, she tied a chiffon scarf around her neck and tied her hair back into a rudimentary ponytail. After a quick look in the mirror, the ponytail was discarded. Her hair was too short. ‘More like a bob-tailed nag,’ she muttered and headed down the stairs.

  Jonathan was already there when she arrived. He greeted her with a smile and told her they were giving free Lincoln biscuits with each cup of coffee.

  ‘Two biscuits for each customer,’ said the waitress with a bright smile and a swish of her ponytail as she put the order on the table. ‘You get more if you come in on a Saturday night. How about it?’ She ignored Janet and directed her question at Jonathan. One hand resting on her hip, she swayed seductively as she waited for him to answer. The jukebox dropped another record onto the turntable, ‘Young at Heart’ by Frank Sinatra.

  ‘Oh my dear! It’s a great shame, but I’m busy most Saturdays. Perhaps some other time?’

  Janet smiled down into her coffee. Jonathan looked and sounded as though he really meant it. Yes, she decided. A very good bedside manner.

  The waitress sighed. ‘Perhaps,’ she said regretfully and went off to serve someone else.

  He smiled at Janet. ‘Pressure of work. You know how it is. I managed to get Professor Pritchard to implement night-shifts for doctors. He wasn’t keen at first, but once I’d persuaded him that as the senior physician, he didn’t have to be part of the rota he readily agreed. Of course, that means that I have to do the lion’s share of nightshirts, but there is method in my madness. I’m after his job. He knows it, and so does the Board of Management. It’s all a matter of time.’

  Janet listened, but made no comment. Her thoughts were elsewhere. The tabletop was a dire shade of green, peppered with black spots, which she traced from one to the other as if she were joining them up with a pencil, like a game in a colouring book. She was comparing the green with the grimness of the office she now worked in. Anything was preferable to that. To think she’d swapped such a wonderful view of the city for a collection of dustbins and delivery vans. Opening the window on a particularly warm day was obviously out of the question when the dustbins were full.

  ‘Janet?’ His voice jerked her from her thoughts. ‘Am I that boring?’ He grinned as he said it and made her feel guilty. ‘I know I do go on a bit about what I do. I apologize. I can’t seem to help it. You see, I’m just not the sort to talk about fashions, films or music – at least not for too long. I suppose it’s because of my mother being crippled by polio that’s made me the way I am. But there …’ He shrugged. ‘It can’t be helped.’

  ‘I adore you going on about your job. I’m as interested in medicine as you are, it’s just that something’s happened …’ She hung her head. ‘It’s my own fault really.’ Sighing, she slumped back in her chair and told him about wheeling Mr Sharpies away from outside his ward, him dying and Miss Argyle having her demoted to a job and an office she hated. He leaned across the table and kissed her cheek. ‘That’s for being a wonderful person,’ he said. ‘I wish everyone cared for the patients as much as you do.’

  She sensed he really meant it. ‘Thank you.’ For a while they sat there, silently thoughtful, at ease with each other like old friends who know that continuous conversation does not prove appreciation of mutual companionship.

  “Why don’t you think about being a nurse?’ Jonathan said at last.

  Janet shrugged. ‘I suppose I should think about doing something like that. I certainly don’t want to stay where I am.’ Thoughts of the grim office, the boring job suddenly seemed to flood over and make her angry. ‘Damn Grace Argyle! Spinsters like her should get a man in their life, then perhaps she wouldn’t be so rotten to anyone who happens to be younger—’

  ‘And prettier,’ Jonathan interrupted.

  ‘And …’ She faltered, suddenly realizing what he’d said. He was looking at her over the top of his coffee cup. It was an intense look, almost as if he were a little apprehensive as to what her reaction might be.

  ‘You see? I talk about my job a lot, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t notice things. My mother tells me I’m a very sensitive, observant and caring person. Mothers can’t be wrong, can they?’

  No man she knew mentioned his mother as much as Jonathan did, but Janet was too absorbed in her own problems to worry about such trivia. She spooned the froth on the coffee to the right side of the cup, then slowly spooned it all back again.

  ‘I think I might have to look for another job. I hate typing out laundry lists and I feel as though I’m working in the Black Hole of Calcutta.’

  Jonathan’s grin diminished, but still fluttered around his mouth. ‘Then maybe it is the time to think about leaving.’

  His thoughtfulness seemed to deepen, his grin disappearing altogether. It was almost, thought Janet, a scheming look and she wondered what was on his mind.

  ‘So what will you next ask of the indomitable Professor Pritchard?’ she asked him after putting her irritation about the new job behind her and taking a sip of her coffee, now cold in her cup.

  He winked mischievously. ‘Who knows, but whatever it is I promise to tell you all about it.’

  Janet agreed to meet Dorothea for lunch on Saturday at the Queens Road branch of Carwardines. Dorothea, her hair restrained with a tartan Alice band that matched her trews and was teamed with a green, short-sleeved sweater, asked, ‘So how’s the new boyfriend?’

  Janet pretended to be more interested in buttering her teacake. ‘He’s fine, though he isn’t necessarily a boyfriend.’

  Dorothea licked the butter off her nose and chewed on the large portion of teacake she’d just bitten off. ‘So if he isn’t a boyfriend, what is he?’

  ‘Just a friend,’ Janet replied with cool self-assurance, pleased that Jonathan talked to her about medicine, not about her being desirable, an obvious prelude to sexual advances.

  Dorothea’s heavily made up eyes opened wide. ‘You mean he hasn’t tried anything?’

  ‘No. He’s a gentleman.’

  Dorothea sputtered breadcrumbs into her coffee. ‘I don’t believe that! Believe me, it’s just a matter of time before his hands wander and he tries to get you into bed.’

  Janet was instantly defensive. ‘He isn’t like that.’

  ‘All men are like that.’

  ‘Not Jonathan.’

  Dorothea looked at her sidelong. ‘Are you sure?’

  Janet self-consciously smoothed her skirt over her knees. She didn’t want to think about Jonathan in a sexual way. He was a friend and she wanted him to remain so. ‘Can we change the subject?’

  Dorothea made a face before continuing. ‘So when do you see your doctor friend again?’

  ‘Tuesday, perhaps Wednesday.’

  ‘Not tonight?’

  It was the question Janet dreaded Dorothea asking. Jonathan was conscientious.

  ‘He has to work this evening.’

  ‘My, my! What a terribly committed young man! But you don’t want to stay at home, darling. Henry’s away, but I’m sure I can find a replacement for him. I’ve got quite a few numbers in my little black book.’ Dorothea prattled on. ‘I can always fix you up with Stephen. You know he’s got a crush on you. You could do worse, you know, and you probably will if you run off from dances before the witching hour. Stephen was very disappointed. I mean, it was the Coronation Ball.’

  ‘He’ll manage without me, I’m sure.’

  ‘Of course he will, darling! If it isn’t you, it’ll be someone else. Are you sure your doctor friend really is working this evening? After all, no man can do without a woman. It’s a bit like smoking, it’s something you just have to have.’

  Janet eyed her friend accusingly. ‘And you should know,’ she said tartly.

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Dorothea as she slowly and seductively slid a cigarette into its holder.

  Janet eyed the lips tha
t pouted around the ebony black stem. They were bright red. Dorothea’s eyebrows, already dark, were heavily pencilled, more like Elizabeth Taylor than Doris Day.

  ‘I’m just cautious.’

  ‘I’m not. I do what comes naturally.’

  Janet lowered her voice. ‘Yes, but you do it too often and with too many different people.’

  Dorothea sucked on her cigarette holder and stuck her nose in the air. ‘Better that than being frigid. That’s what you are, Janet Hennessy-White. You’re frigid!’

  The comment seemed to ricochet around the chocolate brown walls and over the heads of the other customers.

  Janet blushed crimson. People were turning in their direction. Some expressions were full of interest, others of condemnation. ‘Dorothea, will you please lower your voice. You’re causing a scene and anyway, that’s a ridiculous statement.’

  Dorothea leaned so low across the table that one breast dipped into the sugar bowl. ‘When was the last time you let a man put his hand up your skirt?’

  Janet flushed. ‘Never!’

  ‘Or on your bosom?’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘And you’re really telling me you’re not frigid?’

  ‘No! I mean – yes. I’m not frigid.’

  They were talking far too loudly in a very public place. Her face felt as if a firework had gone off next to her cheeks.

  ‘So if you’re not going out with your doctor, where are you going tonight? It is Saturday after all.’

  ‘Out! Out with a friend.’ She was disappointed that Jonathan was not available, but she was damned sure she wasn’t going to show it.

  Luckily a cousin and an aunt of Dorothea’s arrived unexpectedly and brought the showdown to a halt. Janet left, her feet seeming to take on a mind of their own and leading her to Durdham Down where big ladies with small dogs were taking the air, and courting couples strolled hand in hand, oblivious to the shouts of playing children and screaming seagulls.