Coronation Wives

by Lizzie Lane

  After Cassidy (Ginger) let her go, she brushed at her sleeve with as much gusto as she would in banishing a large spider and spat the word ‘Pig!’ Cassidy merely stepped aside and folded his arms, a sardonic grin lifting one side of his mouth.

  The other man came down the steps.

  ‘Billy Hills’s missus,’ explained Cassidy. ‘Mouthy cow! Want me to chuck ’er out?’

  The man looked at her questioningly. ‘Is that right?’

  Polly swallowed her nervousness. ‘Yes. And before you chuck me out, think carefully. You got my old man put inside. But the police are asking questions. And things being the way they are …’

  He ran his eyes over the blonde waves, the checked suit with the nipped-in waistline, the skirt that was just a little too tight for her ample figure. It shouldn’t have happened but, for the first time in a long while, she felt sexy. The look in his eyes said he liked what he saw. Her mission was halfway accomplished.

  Her surmise proved correct when at last he placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘Come inside.’

  Cassidy brought up the rear. At the top of the steps the man beside her turned to Cassidy. ‘My car needs cleaning. See to it, will you.’

  It was not a request. Polly felt her knees buckle. The man beside her sounded Irish, but for a moment she had almost believed it to be something else. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to mention it.

  ‘You almost sound American,’ she said and wondered if it was possible she’d had a date with him once. She couldn’t be sure. She’d had so many.

  ‘Irish. Michael O’Hara. You can call me Mickey.’

  ‘Mickey.’

  Too old really for a name like that, but who cares, she’d call him ‘sir’ if he wanted. He was the best-looking bloke for his age that she’d seen for a while and his lilting accent was reminiscent of the handsome servicemen she’d known with their strong arms, square chins and the best chat-up lines ever. He’s Irish, Polly reminded herself. Besides, remember you’re a married woman and you’re here for Billy. You can’t be swayed by a sexy accent.

  Polly shrugged her coat more squarely on her shoulders and followed the smart, suited figure into the cool interior of the white house.

  Once inside she stopped in her tracks. ‘Wow!’

  It was love at first sight. The floor tiles were black and white – her favourite colours. Wall lights fashioned from plastic to resemble black-stemmed tulips with white petals gleamed from alcoves on either side of a white marble fireplace through which black veins ran like broken blood vessels. Aims to get even or Billy a decent deal paled into insignificance. This was the house of her dreams.

  The sound of their footsteps echoed against the gleaming white walls, the black leather furniture, the chromium and glass doors. He took her into a smaller room off the main entrance hall and indicated that she be seated.

  As he nipped the end off a Cuban cigar she fancied she saw him admiring her legs through a haze of rising smoke. Polly coughed, shifted in her chair, and tried to look as if she didn’t like the way his eyes settled on her bosom and her belly before returning to her face. He was interested and she liked his interest.

  Remember Billy, she said to herself, and sat up a bit straighter. The right words found their way to her tongue.

  ‘I’m Billy’s wife.’

  ‘I already know that.’

  ‘Oh yes! Of course.’

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘Billy didn’t say he was working for a Paddy.’

  Mickey O’Hara smiled and slid onto the corner of the glass and plastic desk, one foot remaining on the floor, one foot dangling. ‘He didn’t say that you were a pretty little blonde with a lot to say for herself.’

  Polly felt flattered, but uneasy. His look was too bold, his face too handsome in short, the sort of man who could sweep her off her feet without really trying given the right circumstances. Dangerous thoughts. Good God, how long had it been since she’d had a man’s arms around her? (Billy’s that is, not the rat Griffiths’s.) Too bloody long! Bloody hell, how would it be after a few months? Control yourself. Remember you’re a married woman.

  ‘Tell me why you came here. Pity to waste the bus fare when I might be able to give you exactly what you’re looking for.’

  Damn the bloody man! His gaze settled on her breasts and his meaning was double-edged, but she’d swallow it. Better him being suggestive than showing her the door.

  ‘Blokes in prison cost their family a lot of heartache and a lot of money,’ she said stiffly. ‘A woman alone trying to bring up a child without her bloke around has a bloody hard time of it.’

  O’Hara narrowed his eyes. ‘I believe you.’

  ‘I need help!’ She said it quickly before she lost her nerve. ‘I reckon I’m due some help from you.’

  ‘How do you reckon on that?’

  ‘Billy’s taken his punishment like a man. And he ain’t said one word to the coppers about you lot, even though they want him to. Not a word.’

  His look hardened.

  Polly warned herself not to push her luck.

  He said, ‘So you think it’s worth money to keep him and you quiet.’

  ‘If you wants him to stay that way, there has to be something in it for us. Billy deserves it.’ Inside she was shaking like a leaf, willing herself not to blink or tremble.

  O’Hara chewed on his cigar before answering. ‘Well, I am surprised. I truly thought he’d salted a bit away from the wider than average cuts he was taking.’

  Christ, Billy you’re an idiot! He knows. He bloody well knows!

  She kept her nerve. ‘OK, so he’s not entirely honest. But then, neither are you lot. Is he the first to ever take a bigger cut than he was s’pposed to? Come on. Tell the truth. You allow for the likes of him taking a bit off the top. Takes a thief to know one.’

  It sounded good and she congratulated herself on what she had said. Criminals ripped off criminals – a plausible excuse that might work in her favour.

  It didn’t seem to at first. Mickey O’Hara was attractive, but had a mean look in his eyes and his jaw was set like a slab of concrete.

  Suddenly a slow smile crept across his face and became a laugh. ‘You’ve got balls, Mrs Hills, I’ll definitely give you that. And you are right, surprisingly enough.’ His laugh got louder. His shoulders began to shake. ‘What the hell can we expect if we employ criminals, eh?’

  Polly laughed too, albeit nervously. ‘That’s right. That’s bloody right!’

  Mickey O’Hara’s laughter stopped dead and he got to his feet. A harder look came to his eyes. ‘I can’t promise anything, but I’ll be in touch. Are you working at present?’

  She swallowed her pride and owned up to the truth. ‘Just a bit of cleaning and looking after an old lady – that’s what I do. But it ain’t enough. Not nearly enough.’

  He glanced at a leather-strapped wristwatch. ‘I have to go. Can I give you a lift?’

  ‘Yes please. The Tramway Centre if you could. I can get me bus home from there.’

  Inwardly she sighed with gratitude. She’d planned to walk at least part of the way home. Every penny she had in her handbag would be needed to go towards this week’s Sunday joint: a breast of lamb or a stuffed bullock’s heart if they were lucky, a pound of tripe if they weren’t.

  Before getting into the shiny black car, she stood and stared at the house taking in the details in case she never had cause to see it again: a flat roof and windows that curved at one end and seemed to dive into the wall at the other. She liked the style, kind of 1940s with a hint of Hollywood.

  On the way home she asked Mickey O’Hara why he was in England rather than Ireland.

  ‘I enjoy working here. It’s basically the same as I did at home, but there’s a lot more of it.’

  ‘Of crime?’

  His grin was sardonic and swiftly gone. ‘I meant construction. That’s what I do. What you call a builder I suppose.’

  ‘You’ve got a nice house. Did you build it?’
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  ‘No. I’m not that sort of builder. I just organize things to do with the construction of buildings.’

  It seemed reasonable enough and Polly badly wanted to believe him because the house was so perfect, so absolutely what she wanted, that everything to do with it was fine by her. It’s been a long time since I ’ad a bit of glamour in me life, she thought.

  ‘I’ll take you all the way home,’ he said as they drove through the Centre.

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘Don’t argue. I don’t like arguments.’

  She clamped her mouth shut and every so often looked at him, wanting to touch him, to breathe in his smell, to hear him talking again.

  Strange how one look from a bloke could upset your life. He made her want to lose weight, to keep her lipstick moist, to stop biting her nails so she could paint them a rich, flirtatious red. Flirt! Her nylons made a whispering noise as she crossed one leg over the other and smiled sidelong at him. Flirt! Yes, that was what she was doing, but she just couldn’t help it.

  ‘Here it is,’ said Polly as they turned into Camborne Road and wanted to cringe low in the seat. The red brick of the council houses glistened in the rain. A brown and white dog glanced over its shoulder as it did its business on the pavement outside number twenty-three. Luckily the privets were pretty high so no one in the house beyond would have seen them pull up.

  Pound to a penny that the curtains are twitching over the road, thought Polly. But I’m not going to look. It’s none of their bleeding business!

  ‘Not quite Ashley Down,’ Polly said.

  ‘I take it you don’t like living here.’

  “Would you? I’d like prospects, something better. I had the chance to go to America at one time, but …’ She shrugged, but held her head in a perky pose that Meg said made her look almost girlish.

  O’Hara pulled on the hand brake then rested one arm along the back of the seat behind her. The other rested on the steering wheel.

  ‘America isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  The way he grinned suddenly made her feel small, inferior and, oddly enough, as though she’d seen him somewhere before.

  He said, ‘Half of Ireland lives there. I know it well.’

  She’d half-expected him to make a pass. It surprised her when all he did was run his finger down her cheek.

  ‘I might have a job for you,’ he said. ‘I need a hostess in my nightclub.’ He restarted the engine and fixed his gaze on somewhere close to the end of the bonnet. ‘Up to you. Call me.’

  Too stunned to move, she watched the car until it turned at the far corner and disappeared. A job! A nightclub hostess! Meg wouldn’t approve, she’d say that sort of job was not much better than being a prostitute, but then, thought Polly, rather that than cleaning someone else’s house even if they did have a vacuum cleaner.

  ‘Slut,’ she muttered as she got out her key.

  She was bright as a button until she saw her daughter sitting on the stairs, her face in her hands and a black look on her face.

  ‘Who’s that bloke?’

  ‘Never you mind.’ Polly straightened her jacket with one hand and self-consciously fluffed up her hair with the other.

  ‘Not another uncle. Not a new dad, is he?’

  Polly almost blushed. ‘Of course not! I’m married to Billy. What the bloody ’ell do you take me for?’

  ‘Well,’ said Carol, undeterred by her mother’s indignation and looking and sounding too much like Aunty Meg for comfort, ‘you do like the blokes a bit, don’t you?’

  Polly aimed a slap at Carol’s face, but missed. ‘You cheeky little cow! Who told you to say that?’

  ‘No one. I just got me own opinions!’

  ‘Well, that’s bloody true!’ Polly broke into a grin then a chuckle. ‘No doubt about it, but yer a right little cow, Carol Hills. You’ve got too much to say fer yerself. Trouble is, I knows damn well where you got it from!’

  Mickey O’Hara didn’t usually take chances. If he had any sense he would keep away from Polly Hills before she realized who he really was and threw his life into turmoil. It both surprised and amused him that neither she nor the woman who’d come tramping onto the building site had recognized him. It was all to the good. The first he could easily avoid, the second he would get to know better, have fun with, and chance his luck. If she did remember where they’d met, he would deal with it accordingly.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The woman looked as though she was wearing a starched tablecloth on her head, and stood with a trolley at the side of the bed. On the verge of a whimper, Susan watched a plume of steam rise from a large enamel bowl. It reminded her of when her mother made a suet pudding wrapped in a bread cloth and boiled for hours. Later it would be served with jam, treacle and a large portion of thick, yellow custard. Pretending this too was food helped her cope with the truth.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Silly girl,’ said a voice from behind the white mask.

  Be a brave girl. Dad. It was Dad she pretended was here when the lights went out or when she got a smack for wetting the bed. That was why she tried to drink as little as possible. That was why her lips were cracked and dry and her tongue was furred with white stuff that tasted like soggy feathers.

  The smell from the stuff in the bowl was horrible. ‘I don’t want it,’ she said and began to cry. Her eyes followed the progress of the bowl from one end of the trolley to the other. Her stomach was already churning in response to the smell, its contents steadily rising up her gullet.

  ‘Now, come along,’ said the nurse as she stripped back the bedclothes to expose Susan’s sad little limbs.

  As the nurse reached for the contents of the bowl, Susan turned to one side and spewed the little she’d eaten onto her pillow.

  Janet needed a miracle. Following Edna’s outburst, she’d been hauled into Matron’s office and asked to explain herself. Before entering, Janet had told herself to stand firm. She owed it to Edna and Susan to keep her head, and if she kept her head, she’d keep her job. That’s what she hoped for anyway.

  The office was possibly the warmest room in the building by virtue of two paraffin heaters, one on either side of the room. The smell was impossible, an acrid aroma of unspent fuel that glowed red on one heater and blue on the other.

  Matron asked her to explain.

  ‘Mrs Smith wanted to see her daughter. She’s missing her desperately.’

  Matron’s dark bushy eyebrows met like two mating caterpillars above her nose. The hairs on her chin bristled as her lips went inwards. Janet found it hard to stop staring at them. They seemed to have a life of their own. She said, ‘Sister Doris insists that she heard Mrs Smith say that you have been visiting her daughter. Is that right?’

  ‘And you’re going to tell me it’s not allowed.’ She couldn’t help sounding impatient.

  ‘No. It is not allowed. And for very good reason. Normally I would indeed dismiss the comment, but the child Susan keeps asking for the lady who tells her stories. Would that be you, Miss Hennessey-White?’

  The image of Susan lying small and helpless made Janet want to shout how unfair everything was. But she couldn’t do that, not if she was to continue visiting her. She must keep her head.

  ‘Of course not.’ She was not a liar by nature, but in this instance she had no choice.

  ‘I shall have to report this to Professor Pritchard,’ Matron went on, her fat chin appearing to move independently of her mouth. ‘Fortunately for you he’s feeling ill and has gone home early. I will take the matter up with him on Monday morning. Until then, you are dismissed from these premises.’

  Janet opened her mouth to protest, then stopped. Best leave it for now. She had no alternative but to head home for the weekend. It hurt her to do so, but she left without visiting Susan.

  If Janet thought she was going to have a quiet weekend, her mother had other ideas.

  ‘I’
m going to see Polly. Would you like to come?’

  Janet demurred. ‘I need to see Edna so I can tell her myself how Susan is getting on.’ She had not and would not mention the possibility of losing her job. It wasn’t just a case of keeping things to herself, a habit she had got into a long time back when things had been difficult between her parents. She was hoping for a miracle, in which case no explanation would be needed.

  ‘You’re in luck. I’m seeing Polly at Edna’s parents’ house in Nutgrove Avenue.’ She didn’t explain why. ‘Edna should be there too. It’s Polly’s pay day.’

  Janet slid off the sofa where she’d been reading an article in Picture Post about problems in Palestine, a million or so people turned off land they’d farmed and lived on for generations.

  ‘I’ll get my coat.’

  The day was chill. The sun was doing its best to break through a thick mist, but there was no breeze to blow it away and only a watery gleam where the sun was supposed to be.

  On a day such as this, Charlotte would normally have put on her fur coat. Today she did not. She wore a blanket-checked coat with patch pockets and big buttons. Janet asked her why.

  ‘Polly’s in a bad way at the moment – financially, that is. I don’t want to appear too well off.’

  ‘Mother! You are well off.’ It was hard not to laugh, but she couldn’t stop grinning. Being well off had always been a source of embarrassment to her mother. Granted a change of clothes might make her seem less affluent, but her poise and her accent were unalterable.

  ‘That’s not the point,’ Charlotte said. ‘Anyway, I’ve got vegetables for her.’

  Normally the heavy, wooden front door at Nutgrove Avenue had always been open and only the inner door had been closed, its ruby red and Prussian blue glass throwing light patterns over the floor, walls and ceiling. Today the front door was shut.