Coronation Wives

by Lizzie Lane

  Janet was first out onto the landing. ‘What was she like?’

  Charlotte stepped quickly down the next flight of stairs, then the next. Intent on hearing more about Mrs Driver, Janet followed.

  ‘I told you. She was in a wheelchair.’ Charlotte Hennessey-White rarely said bad things about people, but you could tell when she was thinking them. Janet had recognized that look back up there in the attic. She knew her mother had formed an opinion of Mrs Driver and it wasn’t a good one.

  They were in the sitting room now. Charlotte began fussing with a mix of Michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums arranged in a blue and orange Imari vase that had dragon handles of royal blue and gold.

  Janet watched her intently. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me. Is she awful? Terribly ugly?’

  Charlotte stopped fussing and frowned at her daughter. ‘She was a charming woman. Her hair was dark. So were her eyes. I don’t think she wore make-up, though it seemed from the length of her lashes that she did. But there, some people are like that, aren’t they? Honoured by nature so to speak.’

  ‘So what didn’t you like about her?’

  Charlotte shook her head as if she’d made a grave misjudgement. ‘I’ve never seen a woman so totally detached from her husband and absorbed in her son. Stay friends with him, but nothing else.’ She left the flowers, settled herself in a chintz-covered chair and pretended to flip through a copy of Good Housekeeping.

  Janet’s shadow fell over the page Charlotte was pretending to read. ‘I want to know.’

  Charlotte put the paper down and looked at her daughter despairingly. ‘He’s a womanizer, Janet.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  Her mother smiled ruefully. ‘Dashing, confident and seemingly interested in your career?’

  ‘He is interested!’

  ‘I doubt it from what I hear. He has women all over the place, but he doesn’t commit himself to any one relationship. His mother won’t let him.’

  If Janet had been in love with Jonathan she would have called her mother a liar. Obviously she was not in love. Jonathan had talked medicine and encouraged her to make more of herself without attempting to seduce her. Having a good bedside manner inspired confidence in the patient. In this context, Janet had been the patient and, without Jonathan knowing, he had made her feel better about herself.

  ‘I know what I’m doing,’ she said.

  Her mother took hold of her hands. They were cool, long and elegant, the nails polished and neat, not blunt and stubby like Janet’s. ‘You’re old enough to make up your own mind.’ She smiled as if remembering something exceptionally sweet. ‘I was married at your age. Just be careful.’

  ‘I want to see the flat before I make a decision,’ Janet told Jonathan.

  ‘I’ll pick you up from work on Tuesday.’

  The crisp smell of autumn fought against the exhaust fumes of city traffic when she stepped out from the top entrance of the hospital. Normally she would have used the bottom entrance, but she couldn’t face meeting Jonathan among the bins and laundry dollies of the Housekeeping Department.

  ‘Yoohoo!’

  She knew the voice even before she turned round.

  Dorothea had a sly grin on her face. ‘I couldn’t resist,’ she said with a girlish giggle.

  Janet instantly regretted telling her all about it over lunch that day. ‘Are you referring to my meeting Jonathan, or the man, correction, men in your life?’

  Dorothea giggled some more. ‘You know me. I’m just here to help.’

  ‘You didn’t need to.’ She made an attempt at being dismissive. ‘Haven’t you got a bus to catch?’

  The hint was ignored.

  ‘Darling, you must be like a boy scout – well prepared.’ She leaned close. Her hair smelt of Vaseline shampoo and her neck of Evening in Paris. She glanced furtively around her. ‘Luckily for you, the barbers up the road sell French letters.’

  Janet reddened. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I went in there and got some.’ After a short rummage in her bag she nudged her folded fist into Janet’s arm. ‘Here. Take them. I got them for you.’

  ‘No! I can’t.’ She kept her voice low. A determined Dorothea continued to thud her arm. Janet glanced wildly about her, concerned lest anyone was watching and had seen what they were doing and heard what they were talking about.

  Reluctantly she took the proffered packet and slid it among the folds of a blue and white polka dot scarf that almost filled her handbag. Swiftly and carelessly, she snapped the clasp shut then scanned the traffic.

  Jonathan drove a grey Humber Hawk, a car big enough to stand out in a whole heap of traffic.

  ‘There he is,’ said Janet.

  Dorothea bent from the waist as the car pulled into the kerb. ‘He’s just as good-looking as I remember him,’ she said throwing a wink at Jonathan.

  ‘It’s the job I’m after,’ Janet hissed.

  Just as her fingers touched the door handle, Dorothea grabbed her arm, pulled her close and whispered into her ear. ‘I still think he wants to give you more than a job, darling. Good luck. I hope the flat suits.’

  Dorothea waved them off as if they were a couple going away on honeymoon. Jonathan had a broad grin on his face. Janet felt obliged to apologize.

  ‘Sorry about Dorothea. She’s a good friend, but a bit over the top at times.’

  ‘Seems fine to me.’

  Thank goodness he hadn’t heard their conversation.

  ‘You look amused.’

  ‘Just happy. We’re going to get you working at Saltmead, aren’t we?’

  On the journey out to Pucklechurch, he asked about her day, and then talked non-stop about his. The more he talked what nestled among the folds of her scarf was forgotten.

  The flat was in the original house at the end of a driveway, which connected it with the single-storey huts that formed the hospital. The building was Queen Anne in style, crisp and inclined to geometric brick patterns between each gleaming window.

  They parked in a cobblestone courtyard that was shiny and slippery with age. Janet tripped awkwardly on getting out of the car and a buckle on her ankle-strap pinged onto the stones. Jonathan retrieved it then took hold of her arm and guided her to the door. ‘Despite that little mishap, I’m sure you’ll like it,’ he said, his voice full of enthusiasm.

  The door was large and as green as the ivy that grappled upwards over weatherworn trelliswork. A lion’s head, its teeth bared around an iron ring, formed the knocker.

  “Won’t be a minute.’ He brought a six-inch iron key from his pocket. There was a sound reminiscent of old cogs grating in a disused mill. The lock refused to budge.

  ‘Damn!’ He pushed at a stray lock of hair that had slid over his brow. ‘Why can’t they get a bloody new door or a bloody new lock!’

  ‘Perhaps if you didn’t try to force it so much …’

  ‘Don’t worry your pretty little head,’ he said breathlessly, then shot her a quick smile as if to say, This is a job for a strong man. Lucky I was here! Like one of those men posed in a Charles Atlas advertisement, ‘You Too Can Have a Body Like Mine’.

  Something dripped onto her head. She stepped back and looked up over the massed foliage to the gutter that squatted close to the red-tiled roof. The house was old but, from the outside, not disappointing. Would she like the interior?

  The door banged open. More water dripped from the gutter and onto her head.

  ‘Something else that needs fixing,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘As long as it’s not leaking inside I don’t care.’

  He laughed. ‘I almost feel I should be carrying you over the threshold.’

  Janet laughed too.

  An arched window on the quarter landing where the stairs turned upwards offered an aspect of green lawn interspersed with flowerbeds over which deciduous trees were shedding leaves of yellow, orange and burnt umber.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she said. She edged away as Jonathan’
s arm wound around her shoulders.

  ‘Just here,’ he said, his confidence undiminished, and led her to a broad, four-panelled door with a brass lock and a Bakelite handle.

  Unlike the door, the inside was unspoilt. The flat was on the first floor and full of light. The ceilings were high, the walls painted eggshell blue. Three windows looked out over the garden to the grounds of the sanatorium where low buildings strung in rows of mathematical precision hugged the ground. An ornate cornice ran around the room matched by a central arrangement of grapes, vines and sprawling leaves, a masterpiece of plaster relief.

  ‘I feel like a princess,’ she whispered. In her mind she had envisaged a squat bedsit with flaking paint and brown walls, windows running with condensation, gaps around windows and threadbare carpets.

  There was a kitchenette with a small gas cooker and, in the living room, a gas fire in what must have once been a beautiful open fireplace with a white marble surround. Chairs with gilt frames, cabriole legs and faded brocade upholstery served to give the room a look of genteel shabbiness.

  ‘The bathroom’s down the hall,’ Jonathan explained.

  She started in that direction, but he grabbed her arm.

  ‘But this room is far more impressive.’ He guided her to a door in the corner of the room. The door was solid, six-panelled mahogany, yet it eased open softly like the swish of a curtain.

  The bedroom was magnificent. Plaster vines, leaves and grapes covered the ceiling. The walls were mint green, the curtains cream brocade. The bed was impossibly outrageous and dominated the room.

  Janet’s mouth dropped open. ‘It’s a tester bed!’

  ‘Tester? Oh. I suppose you mean a four-poster.’

  She took another step into the room, her eyes racing over the shiny wood and enamelled portraits set into a baroque credenza. An Edwardian wardrobe decorated with art deco tulips around its full-length mirrors sat on the other side of the room. Although it could not match the credenza for pedigree, its quality was unimpeachable along with the Victorian nursing chair, the sweetheart settee, and the lyre-ended, military table.

  Janet was awestruck. ‘It’s a lovely room.’

  Jonathan seemed to swell with pride. ‘I knew you’d like it.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  The Indian carpet was ragged along one edge. Janet did not notice it until the heel of her loose shoe caught and she staggered forward.

  Jonathan stopped her from falling flat on her face. She went down on one knee, like a debutante being presented to Queen Victoria. Flustered, she scrambled to her feet as the contents of her handbag fell onto the floor. The packet of French letters fell on top of everything else.

  Inwardly, Janet groaned.

  Jonathan picked up her handbag and put back into it everything that had fallen out – except for the French letters.

  Damn Dorothea!

  Jonathan was smiling, the afternoon sun seeming to make his eyes gleam more than she’d ever noticed. ‘Janet. What a wise woman you are. I knew we understood each other.’

  ‘No,’ she said shaking her head. ‘You’ve got it wrong.’

  He looked puzzled. ‘You do know what these are, don’t you?’

  Her face felt hotter than hell. ‘Of course I do!’

  He rested his hands on her shoulders and gazed into her eyes like some Hollywood idol from the silver screen. It crossed her mind that he’d rehearsed the part many times before.

  ‘You don’t need to be embarrassed. I’m a modern man. You’re a modern woman. We both have needs. What’s wrong with satisfying them?’

  ‘Everything!’ Janet shrugged his hands off her shoulders. Dorothea’s conviction that Jonathan was offering her more than a job was ringing true. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want the job. Now take me home.’

  He eyed the offending packet. ‘But these?’

  ‘My friend Dorothea gave them to me. She misconstrued, just like you.’

  ‘Obviously.’ He shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. He looked genuinely hurt. ‘I feel a bloody fool. I thought you wanted to get out of that hole you’re in. I thought you wanted to work more closely with medicine and to leave home.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ It was all she could think of to say and she felt an idiot saying it, even being here.

  Jonathan took it as an opening for a second chance. He stood between her and the window, stroked her hair and said, ‘Imagine how wonderful it could be, working together during the day, and at night …’

  The gap between them was minuscule. Janet guessed his motive, took a step back and glared at him. She was seeing him differently now. What she’d interpreted as confidence she now knew to be conceit. No doubt his mother had told him time and time again that he was a good doctor, a handsome catch, but first and foremost, an adorable and loyal son.

  ‘What would your mother think if she knew you were trying to seduce me?’

  His expression tightened. Janet continued, ‘My mother met her. Did you know that? Should we let her know that we’re becoming more than friends?’

  Mention of his mother seemed to change everything about him. He looked haunted, almost as if he were a boy again, dabbling in something that his mother had specifically banned.

  His voice turned cold. ‘She’s not to know about you,’ he blurted. ‘She’s very precious to me. She gets hurt very easily.’

  Stunned to silence, he strode to the window, his hands clenched behind his back. His height and breadth seemed to fill the frame blocking out the view. It was probably no more than a few seconds, though it seemed longer, before he recovered his composure, turned and shook his head mournfully. ‘What a shame, and I thought we understood each other.’

  He was himself again, glowing with confidence and the self-satisfaction of a handsome, professional man, a doting, loving son.

  Janet headed for the door. ‘I want to go home – now!’

  She presumed they would drive back to Bristol in silence. It surprised her at how quickly Jonathan recovered, as if nothing had happened. He talked of medical matters, of the insensitive stupidity that prevented patients receiving visitors, of heated pools, of swimming lessons and, most of all, of the new vaccine being developed in America on which everyone was pinning great hopes.

  When they got to Royal York Crescent he said without a trace of bitterness, ‘I’ll give you a week to reconsider. After that I’ll have to tell Professor Pritchard that he’ll have to look elsewhere for a new secretary.’

  Tight-lipped, Janet left him there. If she’d attempted to tell him exactly how she was feeling, she would end up in tears and she didn’t want to appear weak, not in front of him. The new job, complete with a place to live, had seemed like a dream. The dream was over. Reality had settled in.

  Later, she pulled her purse and her scarf out of her handbag and lay both on the dressing table. The interior of her handbag looked oddly bereft although her lipstick, powder compact and tortoiseshell comb were still there. ‘Those things …’ she muttered to herself. Just to make sure, she ran her hands around the silk lining in case the condoms had slipped through an undiscovered rip.

  They weren’t there. Jonathan had picked them up.

  ‘So will you think about it?’ Dorothea asked her the next day at lunch. They were in the hospital canteen, which had high ceilings and was brightly lit. They sat at tables draped with gingham oilcloth, on modern chairs formed from free-flowing plywood on thin metal frames.

  The tea was only lukewarm. One sip was enough. Janet slammed the cup into the saucer. ‘Not unless the sea freezes over and we have pink snow at Christmas.’

  Dorothea giggled. ‘Fancy dropping those johnnies, darling. What a giggle!’

  Janet grimaced at first, but it quickly became a grin. ‘As if a woman would ever carry such things around in her handbag.’ Her grin vanished when she saw Dorothea looking at her nonplussed. ‘Ah,’ Janet said. ‘I should have known you’d carry them around with you.’

  Dorothea shrugged. ‘Common sense
, darling. By the way, have you still got them?’

  ‘No. I left them behind.’ She went on to tell Dorothea how Jonathan had sneakily slid them into his pocket.

  ‘So you’re not the only fish in the sea, darling.’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘Oh well. I’ll have to get some more.’

  Janet remembered the night she’d caught her brother in the altogether except for a condom – obviously supplied by Dorothea.

  ‘While we’re on the subject of sex, what exactly is the position between you and my brother?’

  Dorothea grinned. ‘He was suggestive and I was willing. I think those girls at university aren’t very forthcoming.’

  ‘And what about Henry? I thought you two were engaged.’

  ‘Ah yes. But that’s a long-term thing, you see. Geoffrey is just a diversion. Do you mind?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  The ringing of a bell signified the end of lunchtime.

  ‘For whom the bells tolls.’

  They got to their feet accompanied by the sound of metal chair legs scraping across the floor.

  Janet sighed gloomily. ‘The bell tolls for me. A whole afternoon of typing out the uniform mending rota, swiftly followed by another catalogue of laundry lists.’

  ‘Isn’t there anything to make you reconsider Jonathan’s offer?’ Dorothea asked as they pushed through the swing doors and out into the corridor followed by the all-pervading smell of mashed potato and fishcakes.

  Janet shook her head. ‘It would have to be something pretty earth-shattering to make me change my mind.’

  Polly was sitting on a dining chair in Edna’s front room having her hair permed, the stink of the lotion permeating the whole house and sending the kids into coughing fits. Colin ushered everyone, including Carol who had come with her mother, out into the garden.

  ‘We had a drop of rain last night, but the grass is almost dry now,’ he said as they all piled out of the back door.

  ‘Let’s play cowboys and Indians!’ shouted Peter as he galloped around the lawn slapping his sides and making clip-clopping sounds.