Coronation Wives

by Lizzie Lane

  Billy came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her and gave her breasts an affectionate squeeze. ‘I’m doing it all for you, darling – for you and Carol. You always wanted a better life and, so far, you ain’t had it the way you wanted it. And it’s all my fault.’

  Interpreting her silence as compliance, he kissed her ear. ‘I want to take you away from all this. Believe me, sweet’art, I want something better too.’

  Without him knowing, Billy had given her the cue for mentioning Australia. Polly turned and looked at him. There was anger in the stiffness of her body, but a soft smile pricked at her mouth. ‘Cocky swine!’

  He grinned, presuming that it was all over, he was forgiven and everything would go on as before.

  ‘Well, I’ve got me own plans, Billy Hills,’ she said as she thought about what she had to say. She smiled and stroked a limp lock of hair back from his forehead. Grey strands were sprinkled among the brown. A few more lines creased his face, but he still looked impish even though he was fast approaching middle age.

  Billy acted adamant. ‘I’m gonna give you the life you really deserve, Poll, honest I am.’

  ‘Do you really mean that?’

  He placed his hands on her hips and drew her closer. ‘’Course I do.’

  All the old hopes resurfaced. ‘I know just the place.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, his breath warm and unsuspecting against her ear.

  She nuzzled his cheek, then his ear and said, ‘Australia!’

  The word hit Billy like a sledgehammer. ‘What?’ He immediately held her at arm’s length, shock splashed all over his face.

  ‘Australia,’ Polly repeated, rushing her words before he had time to leg it. ‘Ten pounds each. That’s all it costs for a brand new life, opportunities in a land where the sun always shines.’ She didn’t give him the chance to backtrack. ‘Sunshine. Wide open spaces. Big houses with their own swimming pool. Think of it, Billy. Brighter weather and better job prospects.’ Eyes and voice shone with enthusiasm.

  If Polly hadn’t been besotted with the vision in her mind, she would have seen Billy’s terrified expression. ‘That’ll cost money.’

  ‘Ten pounds each.’

  He was nervous. ‘But we need to talk about it a bit, look into things and that.’

  Polly disregarded the hesitation in his voice and the panic in his eyes. Suddenly her fears about him being beaten to a pulp or ending up in jail were forgotten as the visions and hopes of a new land whizzed around inside her head. ‘On second thoughts I’d better take that,’ she said and grabbed the bundle of banknotes from his weakened grasp. ‘We’ll need it in Australia and if we time it right it don’t matter if you get found out. We’ll be too far away for them to do anything about it. I’ll write tomorrow. OK?’

  Billy felt as though a southpaw had laced one into his midriff. His jaw slackened and his grin hung limp on his lips. Polly pushed his jaw closed. ‘Australia won’t let in blokes who look like a bloody goldfish.’

  He gulped. ‘What about Carol?’

  Polly brushed imaginary flecks from his collar then gently slapped at his cheeks, her own face bright with joy. ‘She’ll love it.’

  ‘What about Meg?’

  Polly paused. This was something she hadn’t quite figured out yet. Bluffing would do for now. ‘She’ll come.’ She tried to persuade herself that she would though she knew it wasn’t likely.

  Billy knew too. He shook his head. His expression was uncharacteristically serious. ‘She’s too old, Poll. I don’t think they let in anyone over forty.’

  Polly bit her lip. ‘I’ll find out.’

  It seemed ungrateful to regard Aunty Meg as an encumbrance. After all she’d been so good to her over the years. But she wasn’t going to let this chance pass her by. Like an unwelcome stranger she turned her back on the problem. Somehow she’d think of something. In the meantime …

  ‘We won’t tell Meg just yet.’

  Realizing he was cornered, Billy looked distinctly pale. Opening his mouth, thinking he could voice important reasons why they shouldn’t go, turned out to be a waste of time. Nothing came out.

  Polly, her eyes bright with excitement, picked up a tea towel, then a plate and proceeded to rub away at it nervously though it had long dried of its own accord. “Wait until we’ve got a sailing date. Meg will probably be pleased to have the house all to herself. The council won’t mind.’

  If asked just a few moments later she would not have been able truthfully to state just how Billy felt about emigrating because she didn’t want to hear any objections or obstacles to going. At present she didn’t want to face Aunty Meg’s comments on the subject or face the stirrings of guilt that could very well prevent her from achieving her dream. Meg had taken care of her since her parents had died. She had also taken care of Carol while Polly had enjoyed herself or gone to work. The truth about how she might respond lurked deep in her heart, too deep to be confronted.

  Edna covered herself quickly after the doctor had finished his investigation. The indignity of an internal examination was something she hated. The upside to a visit to the pre-natal clinic was that she was given free supplies of orange juice and cod liver oil, which came in square shouldered bottles. The juice was thick, sharp and had an odd aftertaste. Adding a tablespoonful of sugar made it taste better. Cod liver oil could not be improved and stank of fish. The nose had to be pinched firmly before it could be swallowed. The bottles were placed in a brown paper carrier bag once she’d explained that her car was in the garage and she’d be getting the bus home. The nurse pursed her lips and one or two of the other women there eyed her enviously. Not too many women could drive a car. Those that hadn’t walked there had caught a bus.

  Outside the clinic she took a deep breath. Peter and Susan were at school and stayed in to dinner so she didn’t have to rush back. She was halfway to Nutgrove Avenue. Reluctantly dutiful, she decided to make the extra effort to visit her parents.

  You don’t have to, said a warning voice within. ‘I do have to,’ she said out loud, then turned to Pamela and said, ‘Let’s go and see Granny and Granfer.’ Pamela gave a quizzical glance then went back to the challenge of undoing the button on her ankle-strap shoe.

  She took a bus to the centre, then changed to another one that took her to St John’s Lane where the bus conductor helped her get off, holding the carrier bag of cod liver oil and orange juice and assisting with the unfolding of Pamela’s pushchair, even holding up the bus until the child was safely reinstalled.

  A bell signalling lunch sounded as she passed Victoria Park School. Droves of children poured out of the doors and scampered like mice towards the group of mothers waiting patiently by the gate. Steam from the school kitchen rose into the air along with the smell of overcooked potatoes and sliceable custard. Edna remembered her own mother waiting there, determined she’d eat lunch at home rather than muck in with the riff-raff who stayed in for dinner.

  ‘Sixpence does not feed a growing child,’ she used to say. ‘Not properly anyway.’

  Nutgrove Avenue was almost deserted when Edna got there, the only movement from houses on the sunny side of the road where blinds of striped deckchair material hung over front doors. The sun was warm, even for September, and shadows fell like black pools across the road.

  As she got closer to the house in which she’d grown up, a shiver of apprehension ran through her. Since the deterioration of her mother’s mental health, the duty had become an ordeal.

  How would she be? Edna asked herself, pausing before jerking the pushchair through the narrow entrance and over the small area of red and black tiles that lay before the front of the house.

  The outside door was open. The inside one was closed but unlocked. Dragging the pushchair behind her, she reached for the handle, her fingers stopping just short of it as her stomach churned. No one had seen her arrive. If she turned now and dashed for the bus, no one would be the wiser and she’d save herself the ordeal of seeing her mother as she was, and
her father trying to cope.

  In a sudden rush of bravery, she told herself not to be a coward, grabbed the handle, turned it decisively and pushed the door open.

  The hall seemed dimmer and smaller than usual. A profusion of coats hung from the hallstand, too many for it to handle.

  ‘Don’t like!’ Pamela wailed.

  Edna tried to quieten her, but couldn’t help wrinkling her nose at the smell of half-done housework, stewed food and unclean underwear.

  Again she contemplated leaving before being discovered, but a door creaked open at the back of the house and her father’s figure lumbered into the passage way. His tired expression evaporated the moment he saw her.

  ‘It’s our Edna! I didn’t know you were coming. Well, there’s a surprise!’

  ‘I thought I’d call in,’ Edna began, searching for the right words at the same time as noting the grubbiness of her father’s clothes and the fact that his shirtsleeves were rolled above his elbows and that soap suds were running down his arms.

  ‘She’s in there,’ he said and pointed timidly towards the door of the front parlour.

  ‘In there?’ Edna raised her eyebrows.

  Her father shrugged apologetically. In the past the room had only been used at Christmas or for some family celebration. ‘She insists,’ he said weakly.

  Leaving the pushchair out in the passage, Edna pushed at the door. Stale food and leaked urine combined to sting her nostrils. The curtains were drawn. The newly acquired television set flickered like a warning beacon in the corner nearest the window. Plump in flannelette nightwear and buttoned down slippers, her mother stared at the screen, her features made ghostly grey by the monochrome brightness of the test card.

  This was not the same Ethel Burbage who had forced her to give up her Sherman, who had sent her away to have the child in secret. The shell, the looks of the woman were unaltered except for the increase in weight, but something was missing. It’s as if she’s dying bit by bit, thought Edna, a little of her mind, perhaps her soul, leaving for heaven – or hell – every day.

  Her mother began muttering to herself. ‘Damned sound! If this sound doesn’t sort itself out, then back to the shop it goes!’ She twiddled the knobs.

  ‘There’s no programmes on yet,’ her father said, his voice heavy with melancholy. He turned to Edna and shook his head, the flesh of his face slackening to a sad softness that lengthened his jowls and made his eyes look saggy. ‘Sometimes I think she sees things in that screen that no one else can.’

  Ethel turned suddenly, pouted and rubbed her chin over her shoulder like a spoilt child. ‘I’m hungry.’

  Edna noticed the plate sat on the floor beside the armchair. Her father leaned closer to her ear and explained. ‘She can’t remember eating. That’s why she’s getting so fat.’

  ‘I heard that!’ Ethel Burbage looked Edna up and down. ‘So’s she! Look at her! Like a little fat pig. Eats more than me she does. Always has done!’

  Her lips made a smacking sound as she sucked them into her mouth. Edna wanted to be sick. For the first time in her life she was seeing her mother without her teeth and untidier than she could ever remember.

  ‘She’s not herself.’ Her father groaned and seemed to sink against the wall.

  Pamela began to wail again. Her father took his chance. ‘I’ll take Pamela out in the garden with me.’

  Edna went out to the front door and took a breath of air before re-entering the stuffy front room. She forced herself to smile as she approached the bundled figure and bent low so that their faces were level. ‘Mother?’

  There was a blank look in the eyes where once there had been a determined hardness. Edna explained things very slowly. ‘Do you remember me telling you that I’m having another baby, another grandchild for you?’

  The vague look in her mother’s eyes suddenly cleared. ‘Another one? At your age?’

  Edna flinched. ‘What’s my age got to do with it? I am married. You do remember you’ve got three other grandchildren, don’t you?’

  Her mother sniffed and patted the unkempt hair that straggled over her shoulders. ‘You should control yourself! Men can’t. Men are animals. Like that Colin … even when they haven’t got any legs they’re animals!’

  Edna shot upright. If anything made her see red, it was criticism of her husband. ‘Colin is not an animal! He is a kind and loving man and I’m very lucky to have him!’

  Her mother raised her head stiffly, the mocking smile of old suddenly reappearing on her face, a brief though unwelcome respite from the condition that was gradually killing her mind. ‘Well, that’s certainly true. You’re soiled goods, my girl. If he ever finds out about your little problem, your little black problem—’

  This was pure venom. Edna cut her off. ‘Colin does know! I told him years ago.’

  ‘Hah! That’s what you say!’

  Edna got to her feet, her face flushed. She felt angry and exasperated. It had been hard enough getting through to her mother in the past, now it was almost impossible.

  ‘You’re getting worse as you get older, Mother—’

  ‘Mother? Who are you calling Mother? You’re not my daughter. Wouldn’t want you as a daughter. Look at you! Simpering little mouse. Drop yer drawers for the first man to show an interest because you’ve got no choice. That’s your sort!’

  Edna was speechless. Weakness of mind should, in her opinion, have made her mother less abrasive, more approachable perhaps. This was certainly not the case. Despite her senility, despite the growth of her body and the shrinking of her mind, Ethel Burbage still had the power to reduce her daughter to tears.

  Chest heaving with subdued sobs Edna rushed from the room, along the passage and out into the back garden where her father grew prize chrysanthemums in a lean-to greenhouse. Pamela was in his arms and he was pointing at the big round flowers and telling her each of their names, not their generic names, but those he himself had given to each flower.

  ‘This brownish-gold one here I call Edna after your mother. When I’m talking to the plant I pretend that it’s her—’

  ‘Dad! I’m going!’

  She tugged Pamela out of his arms, wincing as her strong little legs kicked in protest.

  ‘No! Don’t want! Don’t want!’

  ‘We have to get out of here!’ Edna’s words were strangled by tears.

  Face anxious, his fists clenched, her father ran after her. ‘Edna? What did she say?’

  Tears would flood any explanation. Best to turn her flushed face away and run back inside despite the fact that Pamela pressed heavily on her stomach. Pamela brushed her small hands at her mother’s tear-filled eyes.

  ‘Don’t cry, Mummy.’

  She didn’t stop until she was outside the front door, her father still agitated and frowning anxiously into her face. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She disowned me.’

  ‘Edna. You shouldn’t take too much notice of what she says any more. She ain’t been right lately and she’s getting worse.’

  Edna fastened Pamela back into her pushchair out by the front door without saying anything. Her father tapped his pipe against the solid stone of the house. His fingers trembled. He tried again. ‘You saw what she was like up at your ’ouse on Coronation Day.’

  Edna straightened and looked into the craggy face of her father, noted the diminishing hair and the red capillaries amongst the yellow at the edges of his eyes. He looked pathetic, but then he’d always been pathetic. And so had she. Her mother had seen to that.

  Edna said exactly what was in her heart. ‘I don’t care if she is ill. I hate her. I never realized it before. But I’ve always hated her!’

  The words surprised her as much as they did her father.

  ‘Edna! She’s your mother!’

  ‘And I’m her daughter and I’m giving her back as much sympathy and understanding as she’s ever given me.’

  She saw him blanch, his eyes flicker as he attempted to take in words said in a tone alien
to his daughter’s nature.

  Edna left. Tears of anger stung her eyes as she walked quickly away from Nutgrove Avenue and her mother. But walking wasn’t fast enough. ‘Blasted car!’

  Without looking back she left Nutgrove Avenue, cut through the park and made her way along St John’s Lane to the bus stop. There was a sick, heavy feeling in her stomach that made her wish she hadn’t carried Pamela at all. Just strain, she told herself, you’ll be fine once you’re sitting on the bus.

  Buses along St John’s Lane were frequent and the bus conductor was helpful. ‘Come on then, love. Leave the pushchair to me.’

  By the time she’d changed buses at the Tramway Centre the pain had subsided and her face felt cooler. Just as well; she didn’t want Colin to see her like this. He didn’t deserve it.

  That night she dreamed a woman who looked like her mother was brandishing a spear and stabbing her in the stomach. When she awoke she was sweating and felt a sticky moistness between her legs.

  Colin stirred beside her. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’ She struggled out of bed, both arms over her stomach, and tried to control her panic. She was only five months.

  ‘Edna?’ Colin sat up in bed, his arms braced to hold him upright. His face was creased with worry.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Gasping for breath, Edna staggered to the door and along the landing.

  ‘Edna!’ The anxiety in his voice followed her to the bathroom.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do,’ she shouted back, her tears mixing with the moisture running from her nose and mouth, a disgusting predicament but unavoidable.

  The pain was terrible. She wanted to scream, but if she did that the children would wake and Colin was likely to panic and crawl to her aid. She didn’t want that. Whatever happened she was by herself. Thousands of women went through this. She wasn’t the first. Best grit her teeth and bear it. Her mother’s voice was with her. You brought it all on yourself, my girl.