Coronation Wives

by Lizzie Lane

  Keep him cheerful, thought Polly, and she laughed although she didn’t think it was that funny.

  Determinedly, she went on, sticking to the details although they were far from the truth. ‘I’ll be working in his office handling the paperwork and the phone calls. He’s got a lot of business deals going so he reckons.’

  ‘Course ’e ’ave.’ Billy smiled as though he really trusted Mickey O’Hara, the man he refused to squeal on. Polly sensed he didn’t entirely believe her, but preferred to play innocent.

  ‘But if you don’t want me to work for ’im …’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You do what you ’ave to.’

  Thank God for that! She smiled brightly. Prison visiting was not a pleasant event, but things hadn’t gone too badly. Most of her success she put down to the fact that she had made the effort to plaster on the lipstick and look good for her husband. The black suit she was wearing had a white trim around the collar and cuffs. The outfit had originally been plain and she’d added the trim herself after seeing a picture of one in a magazine – Chanel it had said, which she pronounced ‘Channel’.

  ‘Well,’ she said, her breasts rising as she sighed heavily, ‘that’s it. Either O’Hara takes care of me and Carol or you takes care of ’im – if you know what I mean.’ She spoke in a low voice – no sense in letting the blokes in blue know anything.

  Billy seemed OK about things although it occurred to Polly that he didn’t really have much choice being in clink. But she countered the discomfort easily enough. He should have kept working with Colin. Or he should have got a proper job. Or kept his nose clean so they could have emigrated to Australia. Billy had let her down and she was having trouble forgiving him. The list of things he should have done and hadn’t seemed to get longer with the passing of the years.

  That night Meg was taking Carol and her friend Sean to the early matinee at the Broadway and had promised them a fish and chip supper on the way home. Polly, back from her prison visit, still with her make-up intact, but her costume hanging up behind the bedroom door, had changed into a black skirt and white jumper, which Meg had bought for her from a jumble sale at the Ruskin Hall in Brislington the Saturday before. She was curled up in an armchair with a tattered copy of Woman’s Realm and two more magazines lay against the old brass fender that had come with them from York Street. Meg’s friend, Bridget, had purloined the magazines on separate visits to the doctor’s surgery; she was a regular there now it was free. Eyes were next on the list. Both Meg and Polly pitied the optician who had to deal with her. She always pretended to be deaf if they tried to give her more information or asked her for money.

  ‘So how was Billy?’ asked Meg.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Well, he ain’t out dancing and prancing, that’s for sure!’

  Meg pursed her lips and fixed her fists on her hips. ‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.’

  Polly raised her eyes from the magazine. ‘Where did you get that from – a Christmas cracker?’

  Meg tugged her coat onto her shoulders and changed the subject. ‘So when’s Edna’s kid coming home?’

  Polly turned her eyes back to the magazine. All she’d been thinking about up until now was Mickey O’Hara. Mention of Susan brought her down to earth with a bump. ‘Let’s put it this way, I’m glad it’s not our Carol.’

  ‘Poor little bugger. Sure you won’t come?’ Meg asked as she tied a green paisley headscarf beneath her chin. Two metal curlers bundled with hair dangled on her forehead like tired sausages.

  Polly didn’t look up. ‘No thanks. I might pop out later with Muriel Haskins for a quick drink down the Engineer’s Arms though.’

  ‘I didn’t think you liked ’er.’

  Polly shrugged, but did not surface from behind the magazine just in case Meg looked into her eyes and saw she was lying.

  ‘I’ll see you later then.’

  Just minutes after Meg and the kids had left, Polly was upstairs and changing back into the suit she had worn to visit Billy. Hopefully there wouldn’t be too many of the neighbours on the bus stop or hanging over their garden gates aching to ask her where she was going.

  She grimaced as the rusted iron of the front gate clanged like a trap behind her. The kids playing marbles in the gutter did not look up. Brian Casey over the road was playing with the throttle on his motorbike. For once she was thankful of his damned tinkering. The noise masked the sound of her heels click-clacking up the road to the bus stop.

  So far so good. Nosy parkers were indoors digesting their evening meals, listening to the radio or taking the washing in off the line before it froze solid. Alone at the bus stop she glanced at her watch. A couple of minutes and the bus should be there – providing it was on time. Ten minutes late was not unusual and the conductor wouldn’t care if you did complain. A man wearing a trench coat and smoking a cigarette came and stood beside her. He smelt of strong tobacco and stale beer. She stepped away from him although she lit up herself.

  A few other people straggled to the bus stop, eyed her speculatively, then looked away. Most, she guessed, were going to the Engineer’s or perhaps as far as the London Inn. But she was going further than that and her stomach churned with a mix of nervousness and excitement at the thought of it.

  It took two buses to get to Ashley Place. Mickey had told her to be there by eight thirty, but both buses had been late. Sodium streetlights, orange suns against the darkness, flashed past at regular intervals. She counted them … one … two … three … Seconds turned into minutes, until one, then two hours had gone by.

  It was closer to nine o’clock when she got to Ashley Place. One or two buses trundled along past her, but there were few cars, their headlights seeming to flicker and distort as rain began to fall. Every so often she glanced over her shoulder. There was no sign of Charlotte! Polly grimaced. Next Tuesday she’d be up at Charlotte’s, but not to take tea and tittle-tattle. Oh no, next week she’d be giving her a piece of her mind.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ she said as she entered the house. But I wish I could, she thought. I wish this was mine and I could live here for ever. This was her ideal home, its austere black and white decor unblemished by the autumnal shades of current fashion.

  ‘Hardly worth you coming!’ Mickey’s tone was cutting and surprised her.

  ‘The buses were late.’

  ‘You should have let me collect you.’

  She gripped her handbag more tightly. She so wanted to please him, to have him like her. ‘Oh no! I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.’

  It sounded weak, but how could she say that he couldn’t collect her all the time? The neighbours would be looking and they’d report her being picked up by a bloke in a flash car. The news would go round the street like a forest fire. ‘And where there’s smoke …’ they’d all be saying.

  Yeah, she thought, and the flippin’ flame would go all the way into Horfield Prison and Billy’s cell.

  Mickey cupped her elbow in his hand and guided her to a white leather sofa. She sank into its marshmallow opulence, feeling the same pleasure as she did when she sank into a hot bath.

  ‘Bloody ’ell! I feel like Joan Crawford!’

  He smiled engagingly. ‘More like Jean Harlow, I think.’ He looked happier.

  Polly felt her face getting warm. She wanted to say she was doing her best nowadays to look like Marilyn Monroe, but he might think her cheap. After all, hadn’t Marilyn appeared on a calendar in the altogether? And she didn’t want him to think her cheap. She wanted him to think well of her, even desire her. Yes! That was it. The way young men in uniform had desired her back in the forties, their lust shining like fire in their eyes. That’s how she wanted Mickey to regard her. Just like they used to do.

  His look started at her head and journeyed downwards – almost as though he were stripping her clothes from her body and leaving them in a pile on the floor. By rights she should go. But her legs had turned to lead. Her heart was beati
ng twenty to the dozen and an old familiar tingling was getting her going in all the right places.

  He reached for a cigar from a heavy silver box, its gleam reflected in the black tiles of the coffee table it sat on. ‘As I promised, I am going to show you the club tonight. After that I can drive you home – save you having to wait on a bus stop. My boys will be back with the car shortly.’

  He turned and opened the door of a circular object that turned out to be a cocktail cabinet. Glasses clinked against bottles. Without asking her what she wanted, he poured two drinks.

  ‘Nice piece of furniture,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘I got it made specially. Drinks in this bit …’ He demonstrated how the top pulled down exposing bottles and glasses against a mirror-lined interior. ‘And this,’ he said, tapping what looked like a drawer beneath it, which opened at his touch. ‘For personal paperwork.’

  ‘That’s clever.’

  Polly was under no illusion that this man was in control of the situation. But she couldn’t let it stay that way. She had to say something. She cleared her throat, determined that she would not sound at all nervous. ‘So! How long have you had the club?’

  She didn’t really want to know. It was just that she had to say something to stop herself from shivering like a frightened little fool.

  ‘Long enough! Port and lemon?’ He handed her a glass of dark red liquid.

  Polly looked at it and blinked. ‘A tart’s drink!’

  His eyebrows rose in surprise.

  She glared at it and got to her feet. ‘That’s what my aunty calls it. And if you think that’s what I bloody am, you can go and …’

  ‘I’ve got the same,’ he said, raising his glass as if in a toast. ‘I like it and I presumed you did too. I apologize. I can get you something else if you’d prefer …’

  Slowly and as gracefully as the situation allowed, she sat down again. ‘No! That’s all right.’

  He didn’t think she was free and easy. Well, that was something. She took a big gulp, then another, before putting the glass back on the table.

  ‘Well, I ’ave to say, I needed that!’

  His smile seemed sarcastic. Was he amused at her discomfort? She attempted to study his expression, but he’d turned away.

  ‘They’re back.’ He was looking beyond her to the well-raked gravel drive and the sleek black car that had just pulled in.

  He helped Polly to her feet, put his arm around her, and guided her towards the front door. ‘Well, Cinderella! Shall we depart for the ball?’

  Polly beamed up at him as though she’d won first prize in a raffle. She looped her arm through his and said in a Mae West accent, ‘Better than going to a ball, honey! Let’s you and me have a ball!’

  Suddenly she wanted very much to let her hair down. What the hell! Why shouldn’t she have a good time? With a sashay to rival Diana Dors, Polly sallied to the front door, a wide smile on her bright red lips. She hadn’t felt this happy for a long time.

  But you’re married!

  Why was it that the voice of conscience sounded so much like Aunty Meg?

  Yeah, but Billy ain’t perfect, is he?

  And when was the last time Billy had made her feel like a film star? When was the last time he’d taken her dancing?

  The journey from the room with the white sofas to the car in the drive was like walking on air. The car, the garden, the buildings and the road beyond were no more than a multicoloured blur. She felt young again and a handsome man with a warm accent was taking her out.

  Edna was clearing dishes. Colin was hanging around in the doorway watching her, wanting to say so much, but not daring to. What could he say that would grab her attention and not cause an argument?

  He decided on: ‘Old Tom Rayburn’s offered me a goose for Christmas. How do you feel about that?’

  The bustling figure in green sweater and tartan skirt stopped rubbing at dishes, paused and turned slowly round to face him. Her face was very white, which made her brown eyes seem as big as saucers. ‘Do you think Susan will like the Christmas tree?’

  This was not the response Colin had been hoping for. His face dropped. ‘Look, love, I don’t think our Susan’s likely to be home for Christmas. The doctors said …’

  Forgetting that a cup was enfolded in the tea towel, Edna flung it onto the table, which sent the cup crashing into pieces on the floor. ‘I want Susan here for Christmas.’

  Colin spread his hands in a helpless gesture, opened his mouth to say something, but the words seemed too difficult to utter. It was not possible for Susan to be home for Christmas; that’s what he wanted to say, but all he ended up saying was, ‘Please, Edna. Please!’

  Edna kicked at the pieces of broken cup. It was part of a set that she’d bought cheaply from Billy Hills. ‘Look what you made me do!’

  ‘I did?’ shouted Colin, unable to control his emotions any longer. ‘You did it, because you will not listen to a bloody thing I say, or the doctors, or anybody. Susan is not, I repeat, not coming home for Christmas!’

  Noises came out from the sitting room where Peter and Pamela were watching Muffin the Mule or some other children’s programme. Peter had taken something from Pamela and the little girl was wailing piteously.

  ‘I’ll go,’ muttered Colin and pushed himself up from his chair and poked his head around the door of the living room. ‘I told you kids to behave yourselves. And you shouldn’t sit so close to that television. It’s bad for your eyes.’

  ‘You shouldn’t say that,’ Edna snapped, slamming a cupboard door behind her, having got out a dustpan and brush.

  Colin’s face was bright red. ‘I thought you agreed with me about them sitting too close to it?’

  ‘I meant “kids”. It’s not an English word.’

  ‘No! American, dear. Another black mark against the Yanks.’

  Edna winced, then dropped to her knees and proceeded to brush the broken bits of china into the dustpan.

  Exasperated, Colin sighed, fell onto a kitchen stool, and buried his head in his hands.

  Pamela’s crying gradually ceased. Peter poked his head out of the door. He made a face as though he’d well and truly judged his parents’ mood, then ducked back in again.

  Colin felt and sounded tired. ‘Have you quite finished?’

  Edna didn’t answer.

  ‘What’s happening to us, Edna?’

  ‘Nothing!’ She shrugged. Although she was desperate to tell him everything that was in her heart, she couldn’t do it. She’d posted the crisp blue letter on the way home from her mother’s – after Polly had told her that she had a new job. Telling him about it was incredibly difficult. It was as though she’d dug a moat around herself and she couldn’t for the life of her bring herself to lower the drawbridge. She found herself wishing she’d left the job of telling Colin to Charlotte. She was so much stronger, so sure of what to do and when to do it.

  The sound of the phone pierced the deadly silence that had fallen between them, but did nothing to lessen the animosity and pettiness.

  ‘Are you going to get that?’ Edna snapped.

  Colin’s head remained buried in his hands.

  After slamming the dustpan and brush down onto the clean wooden draining board, Edna stalked off.

  Colin heard her pick up the telephone and say, ‘Yes, Dad. It’s me. What is it now?’

  Never had she sounded so terse. He shook his head as she continued. ‘Dad, I cannot come right now. You’ll have to deal with it yourself.’

  A silence followed. He guessed that Edna’s father was repeating a request for her to come over and deal with something.

  Edna answered impatiently. ‘No. I will not. She’s bound to turn up sooner or later. I expect she’s in the park again. If it gets that late and she still hasn’t come home, call the police.’

  No matter how bad her mother had been, Edna had always had time for her father. What had happened to her? What was happening to them?

  Colin eyed her accusingl
y as she came back out into the kitchen. She saw his look, stopped, and said, ‘I’ve got other things to think about. She’ll turn up.’

  ‘It’s getting dark outside,’ he said.

  In confirmation of his statement, the wind began to throw the falling rain against the window. It sounded like hailstones.

  ‘She’ll turn up,’ muttered Edna as she picked up the dustpan and made for the back door. ‘She’s like a bad penny. She always turns up.’

  The last bus from Melvin Square to Old Market was running late and the rain was coming down in sheets.

  ‘Can’t see we’ll be stopping to pick anyone up in this weather,’ said the driver to the conductor. The latter only nodded. He was yawning and yearning for his bed.

  There were no passengers on the bus and it looked like a swift run back to the depot. By the time the bus had rounded Kenmare Road and started the steep descent down Donegal Road, it looked like being a fast run and downhill as far as the chip shop at the bottom of Glyn Vale.

  Lurgan Walk on one side and Cavan Walk on the other dissected the hill at its halfway point. By the time they got to the bus stop at the top of Glyn Vale the rain had got heavier and likewise the driver’s eyelids.

  Like dry sticks the windscreen wipers swiped over the windows, dissecting the water into two separate halves, dismissing it for a moment before it was instantly reformed.

  The driver blinked himself awake and glanced behind him. The conductor was sprawled across a seat, mouth open and eyes shut. Lucky sod!

  It was no more than a moment, no more than a glance. A figure, blurred by rain and drowsy eyes, danced into the road. The driver shouted and stood on the brakes. There was a bump, a screeching of tyres as the bus crossed the road and crashed into the front garden of a house.

  Later, he sat with his head in his hands and cried.

  ‘It happened so fast,’ he wailed once the ambulance had arrived, the crowd had gathered, and the police were asking questions.

  The conductor said nothing because he’d seen nothing. ‘It was raining and dark,’ he said, but did not mention the fact that he’d fallen asleep.

  ‘We went into a skid,’ the driver went on, resigned to the fact that there were no witnesses, no one to corroborate that he had, for the most part, kept his eyes on the road.