Coronation Wives

by Lizzie Lane

  Planned speeches on what she would say to Ivan lost their initial clarity as each rendering of words was accompanied by yet another tumbler full of whisky. And she blamed Ivan for getting Colin drunk simply because she’d seen him drunk. He was bound to be guilty.

  Whisky upon whisky steadily clouded the issue. What he was guilty of became less clear and Janet began to cry. She cuddled herself, her chin dropping as tears squeezed from her eyes. In her mind she wasn’t seeing Susan, Colin or anyone else. Ivan and his comments had triggered her deeply buried secret, the one that only Edna knew about. Anguish and anger were ready to bear fruit. The time was ripe and there was whisky in the bottle, which seemed now to be sitting in its own Highland mist.

  By the time Ivan got back, her head was rested on her arms and the sleeves of her favourite pink sweater were wet with tears.

  Bleary-eyed, she raised her head and looked at him from beneath the fall of fringe that flopped over one eye. Her mouth felt loose, but she still managed to say, ‘Get out of my house. You’ve got no business being here. Go home! Go back to your own country.’

  He slammed his hands palms down on the table. ‘You stupid woman. Look at you. As drunk as two pfennig Freda and without half the cause to be!’

  She frowned and tried to focus on him. ‘Who is she – this woman – this Freda?’

  He leaned closer. ‘A whore! She got drunk a lot.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Her voice sounded slurred and her legs wobbled as she got to her feet, but she lashed out at him anyway, missed and toppled. He caught her, but not before she’d hit her head on the corner of the table.

  Before the room had been spinning slightly. Now it whirled with all the energy of a fairground carousel.

  ‘My head,’ she groaned as he settled her back into the chair. ‘My head!’ The tears flooded down her face. He had called her a whore! Her thoughts automatically went back to that terrible night just before the Coronation. There’d been such jubilation in those weeks before Queen Elizabeth II had ascended the throne. Everyone was sure that the world was about to change. Well, it certainly had for her.

  Ivan was gentle but brusque. ‘Let me look at it.’

  Feeling sorrier for herself than she could ever remember, Janet sobbed through her words. ‘Get a-a-away f-f-from me.’

  She heard the sound of running water, then something cold was pressed against her head.

  He asked her if it felt better.

  She groaned something unintelligible in reply. After some time she heard the kettle boil.

  ‘Drink this.’

  He pressed a cup to her lips. She smelt the sweetness of coffee beans and chicory. Her head ached and she couldn’t stop the tears. Please make the coffee stop all this, she prayed as she swallowed it down.

  ‘You called me a whore,’ she wailed, her face creased like a baby without its bottle.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  She tried to focus on him, to read the expression in his eyes. In her drunken daze it seemed as if there was a sneer on his lips and a look of contempt in his eyes.

  Janet’s gaze never left his, even when he raised a second cup of coffee to her lips.

  She hit it from his hands. ‘I’m not a whore! It wasn’t my fault! It wasn’t my fault!’

  A mix of tears and slobber poured down her chin, but she didn’t care. ‘It was dark,’ she went on, unable now to stop herself. ‘He was there in the darkness. I didn’t even see his face.’ Face upturned, she looked into Ivan’s eyes. ‘Imagine. I never saw the face of the man who took my virginity. Is that silly, or is it sad?’

  Despite her misted eyes, she saw his expression change. Sympathy for her knocking her head had seemed begrudgingly given, but not now. His expression was gentle. ‘You were raped,’ he said matter of factly.

  Janet’s head sank closer to the table as she nodded. Her neck seemed too weak to hold it. Her voice was full of despair. ‘I didn’t see him. I heard his voice. He was Polish, at least, I think he was.’

  Ivan knelt down at her side and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘So I reminded you of him?’

  She nodded again. If she’d been sober, she would have pulled away and told him in no uncertain terms that he was taking liberties. But tonight she was drunk, very vulnerable and needful of someone to care.

  ‘I understand,’ he said softly.

  ‘It’s stupid,’ she said as her head flopped upon his shoulder. ‘I thought I’d seen you somewhere before. I thought you were him.’

  ‘But you said you didn’t see him.’

  Janet sniffed as her sobs subsided. ‘I didn’t see him.’

  ‘But you did see me somewhere before. It was on Coronation Night. I ran after you with the money; which you had given me for your drink and I had no change.’

  ‘Oh!’ Janet’s voice was small. Speaking loudly would only send shock waves through her head. A vision of a waiter running after her and waving a pound note popped into her head.

  ‘Do you want to go to bed now?’ Ivan asked.

  What did he mean? She eyed him warily, but couldn’t see any reason to worry. She shook her head and wished she hadn’t. It felt as though her brain had come loose from its moorings, like a seaside yacht in a violent storm.

  He made cup after cup of coffee and she drank it. Every so often he put the wet cloth under the cold water tap, then put it back on her head. He did not press her further about the rape and she did not offer any further information.

  He talked about Colin, his voice full of genuine concern. ‘I am worried. He is worried about his children and his wife. I listen to what he says, but do not say anything. For now all he needs is for someone to listen to him. And I do this.’

  ‘Funny. I confided in Edna. She’s the only person who knows besides …’ She looked directly into his eyes, wishing suddenly that she could turn the clock back and had chosen to drink coffee rather than whisky. Alcohol had a lot to answer for.

  Ivan caught the sudden alarm in her expression. ‘I will tell no one.’

  She smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  He smiled back. ‘That is the first time you have smiled at me. I like it.’

  ‘Just tell me I’m not like two pfennig Freda any more.’

  His smile drifted away. A thoughtful look came to his eyes. ‘There was no shame in what she did. Freda did what she had to do to survive.’

  Janet rested her chin on her hand and threw him a questioning look. ‘I thought you said she was a whore.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. She was. She lived in Hamburg. She had no job, no husband and three children to support. The hotel she used to own with her husband had been bombed. The family lived in the cellars. It was all that remained. And they were hungry, like a lot of people at that time. She had sold everything she could including her husband’s medals and uniform. She sold the furniture, clothes … she even foraged in the bins at the back of a block of apartments where the Allied military were billeted. Anything she found – vegetable peelings, bones, rotten fruit – was boiled up in one big saucepan. Old tea leaves were reused.’ He paused and looked down at his hands. Janet rubbed at her forehead, unsure whether she was really hearing this or whether it was just the whisky distorting what he was saying.

  ‘Eventually, there was only her body left to sell. But there were many hungry women with or without children. The younger ones got the higher prices. Women of Freda’s age were many. They did not get a very high price.’

  She wanted to ask him how he knew all this. Had he been one of Freda’s customers?

  ‘No,’ he said abruptly as if reading her thoughts. ‘I was not one of her customers, but I was a friend. All who have suffered need friends to listen, to help, to do what they can.’

  A silence pervaded the kitchen as they finished off the last of the coffee. Janet felt strangely at ease. In an odd, inexplicable way, it felt as though she had met him for the very first time. She felt she owed him an apology, but was not quite sure how to offer it.

  She attempted
to focus on the kitchen clock. ‘It’s late,’ she said and staggered a little as she gathered the cups and whisky tumblers. She looked down into the washing up bowl as if searching for the right words, the ones Ivan truly deserved. Perhaps it was the whisky that prevented them coming. What she did say was founded on what he’d said about Coronation Night and sounded second best.

  ‘Don’t worry about giving me the money back.’

  ‘Ah!’ He groped in his pocket. ‘It is yours. You must have it.’

  ‘No. Please. I was rude to you, both on Coronation Night and …’ She paused, blinked her bleary eyes and swallowed her pride. ‘Many times.’

  He caught her hand in his and pressed the money into her palm. ‘I like things to be right. It is my way.’

  He smiled and she smiled back, the words he spoke and the way he said them flowing into her mind like warm treacle.

  Too much whisky, too much coffee and the bump on the head meant that she woke up with a headache the next morning.

  Staggering from her bed, she drew back the bedroom curtains, wincing as the light stabbed at her eyes.

  ‘Never again,’ she muttered and covered her face with her fingers.

  Determined to beat the throbbing headache and take stock of the world, she slowly lowered her fingers and focused on the Avon Gorge.

  Last night was like a series of one-act plays: Colin drunk; clashing with Ivan; Ivan taking Colin home; Ivan coming back and talking to her like a … good friend.

  She groaned into her hands and closed her eyes. ‘Oh no!’ She’d told him about that night. She’d told him why she had been hostile to his presence and he’d told her where they’d first met. Throwing herself onto the bed, she burrowed her head between the pillows, welcoming the darkness and vowing that she could not possibly face him this morning.

  But the pillows gathered around her head did nothing to hide the sound of Ivan banging on the bedroom door later.

  No! She couldn’t face him!

  ‘Janet! You have to come. Your mother is on the telephone.’

  She got up, meaning to open the door straight away. But the thought of what she had told him made her hesitate.

  ‘Go down. Tell her I’ll be right there.’

  At the sound of his receding footsteps she reached for her dressing gown, hastily put on her slippers and went to take the call.

  He was still by the telephone when she rushed down the stairs and passed the phone to her.

  Janet threw him a tight smile then swiftly looked away. A man who was almost a stranger knew what had happened to her on that fateful night in June, which was certainly more than her mother did.

  She held her hand over the telephone until he had headed down the stairs to the kitchen where Mrs Grey would probably stuff him with eggs, bacon and thickly buttered toast.

  Her mother was shouting down the telephone, as if being loud would compensate for the crackling from which long distance calls habitually suffered.

  ‘Janet. I know we are only at Portishead, darling, but this is not a good line. Can you hear me?’

  Janet made a determined effort not to shout in return. ‘It’s not too bad. How are things down there?’

  ‘Your father’s a bit better. We’ll be home by midday tomorrow.’

  Sunday morning. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘How’s Susan? Has there been any progress?’

  ‘Nothing’s changed.’

  ‘Are you still wearing your disguise to see her?’ She sounded amused.

  Janet lay the back of her hand against her aching forehead. ‘Yes, though I feel like Philip Marlowe with a touch of the Seven Dwarfs. Can you imagine what I look like in clothes made for a man six inches taller than me?’

  Her mother giggled. Janet thought how young she sounded.

  ‘Never mind, Janet. I would have done the same myself. Have you told Edna and Colin about all this?’

  ‘Not really.’ Janet crossed one arm over her waist where the cord of her dressing gown was starting to unravel. There was no point in telling her mother that she had tried telling Colin, but he had been sprawled in a drunken stupor over the kitchen table at the time. Instead she said, ‘I don’t think they can take much more.’

  Her mother sighed. ‘I agree.’ It sounded as though there were layers of problems that Janet knew nothing of.

  Suddenly Janet felt an overwhelming sense of isolation, similar to how she’d felt at boarding school. ‘I miss you,’ she said.

  Her mother didn’t hesitate. ‘I miss you too.’ For once there were no other people, no other problems except their own, but it didn’t last. ‘Oh, by the way, dear, I did post some letters to Edna. Do you know if she’s received them yet?’

  Janet remembered the file and the letters she’d seen on her mother’s desk. She vaguely remembered the contents. At the time they hadn’t really sunk in, but now, remembering Edna at the zoo telling her about her secret child, it all fitted into place.

  ‘I’ll ask her,’ she said softly. ‘And Mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think you’ve done the right thing.’

  There was another pause before her mother said, ‘I hope so, dear. I sincerely hope so.’

  On the following day, Charlotte and David came home at midday to a Sunday roast prepared by Janet and cooked by Ivan. Luckily for them there was no Mrs Grey to interfere and the clatter of pans and preparations were like the warming up of an orchestra, fine-tuning itself for the main event.

  Her father specifically asked to eat in the kitchen. ‘I feel warmer here,’ he said. His face was pale and looked clammy as if a fine spray had been applied.

  Charlotte had been going to give Janet a lift back to Saltmead, but David’s appearance gave cause for concern. ‘I can’t drive you, darling. I’m needed here. But if Ivan could drive you out there.’ A worried frown creased her brow. ‘It’s your father, you see,’ she said after closing the drawing room door where he was presently dozing in his favourite chair, ‘I can’t possibly leave him.’

  The prospect of being driven by Ivan would have sent butterflies fluttering in her stomach previous to last night. Today it didn’t happen.

  ‘Say nothing about the letters,’ Charlotte added. ‘I doubt whether she’s told Colin about them.’

  The car journey back to Saltmead was surprisingly pleasant. There was no tension between them, no long awkward silences. Colin and Edna were an easy topic of conversation and en route they stopped off at Kingscott Avenue.

  When she knocked at the door, Edna answered. At first she smiled then her face dropped. ‘Stay there,’ she ordered, holding out a warning hand, and shouted over her shoulder, ‘Colin! Shut the children into the dining room.’

  Janet exchanged a quick look with Ivan who had approached the house with her.

  Following the slamming of a door, a troubled looking Colin appeared in the passageway, then disappeared as Pamela and Peter began crying.

  Edna was like a sentry filling the doorway and blocking their way. ‘Keep your distance. I don’t want the other two getting sick.’

  She looked tired and agitated. Perhaps a little good news might help. ‘I’ve seen Susan, Edna.’

  Edna nodded, her eyes seeming like saucers in her pinched, pale face. ‘I know. Will you give her my love?’

  Janet hesitated in replying. How could she possibly explain to a distraught woman how careful she had to be? She nodded anyway. ‘Yes. Of course I will.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Edna started to close the door.

  ‘Wait!’ Janet grabbed the door and dropped her voice. ‘Have you received the letters my mother sent?’

  Edna glanced nervously over her shoulder then nodded.

  ‘But you haven’t …’ She’d been about to ask whether she’d told Colin, but he chose that moment to appear at the window. He waved and looked as if he were about to open it.

  Seeing him there made Edna agitated. ‘You’d better go.’

  ‘All right.’

  There was n
o need to ask whether Colin knew anything about the letters. It was obvious he did not.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As Edna turned right at the top of Wedmore Vale, she blessed the day back in 1945 when she’d met Polly and Charlotte on Temple Meads Station. They’d been there when she needed them, just as now.

  She arrived at Polly’s house in Camborne Crescent at around nine thirty. Although both Janet and her mother had stressed that visiting was not allowed at Saltmead, Edna refused to believe it.

  ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t refuse a worried mother,’ she said when Janet had told her of how she read stories to Susan almost every night.

  ‘They won’t let you in,’ Janet had stressed again. ‘Please understand that.’

  Edna had pretended that she accepted what Janet said as fact, but her determination to see her child was too great to be denied. Polly had agreed to go with her to the sanatorium. No one else, not even Colin, had been told she was going.

  Impatient to get going, she blew the horn so Polly would know she was there. ‘Hurry up,’ she whispered, taking care not to meet the gaze of a group of gossiping women with meaty arms across wide stomachs. Probably wondering who I am, she thought, perhaps surprised to see a woman rather than a man calling for Polly in a car. Polly had always had a bit of a reputation and was almost boastful about it.

  Not bothering to turn the engine off, she tapped the steering wheel as she waited, taking a glance at her watch, then at the street, anything to make time pass more quickly.

  Camborne Crescent was not a place she would choose to live in and today it seemed drearier than ever. A grey sky hung over the red-brick houses, and sweet wrappers whirled across the pavement in a cold wind, finally seeking shelter beneath the straggly privets. The remains of Coronation bunting hung ragged and dripping with recent rain from between the streetlights. No one had bothered to take them down. They’d probably be there next year, she thought ruefully, or even longer.

  Polly came dashing out of the house, made up to the nines and flouncing down the path in a full-skirted dress with penny-sized black spots scattered on a white background matched with a black bolero jacket. As if she were off to a party, thought Edna, and smiled. Even after all these years, Polly was still a bundle of energy.