Coronation Wives (8 page)

Susan interjected in her usual knowledgeable manner. ‘He’s going to put on fancy dress, you silly boy. It’s going to be a very special dress.’

Polly nudged Edna in the ribs. ‘Not dressed as Widow Twanky, is he?’

Edna laughed. ‘Of course not. He won’t be wearing a dress.’ She beamed at the small faces around the table. ‘He’ll look bright and merry – just like us!’

All the children were wearing different outfits, most made from crepe paper in the appropriate colours of red, white and
blue. Edna was dressed in a gingham dress with puff sleeves. She wore her hair in pigtails ending in big white bows, which made her feel very girlish even though she was in her early thirties and a mother. Today was magical. Tomorrow would be even better because everyone would be dressing up, partying and toasting the new queen with anything drinkable.

Charlotte was dressed in something long, made of mauve lamé and possibly dating from before the First World War. Her hair was covered by a beaded cap and when she wasn’t dishing out jelly she was carrying an ebony cigarette holder.

‘And before you ask I’m supposed to be Mata Hari,’ she informed Polly.

‘I see.’ Polly turned to Edna. ‘Obviously you’re Alice in Wonderland.’

‘No, I’m not,’ said Edna, embarrassed because she’d considered her outfit so obvious and badly wanted both today and tomorrow to be a great success.

Polly looked surprised, but also took wicked pleasure from Edna’s discomfort. ‘Go on then. Tell me who you’re supposed to be.’

Before Edna could explain a loud clattering and clanking sound came down the stairs and along the hall. The door suddenly burst open and half a dozen small voices squealed with delight.

All eyes turned to where Colin Smith filled the frame. They gasped in amazement. Colin’s body and arms were covered in cardboard that had been painted battleship grey to resemble metal. The colander on his head – used mostly for straining dried peas that turned to a mush when they were cooked – was made of real metal. So, unfortunately, were the shiny legs sticking out of what remained of his Royal Navy shorts (tropical-issue). They’d once been white, but were now grey and toned with the rest of his outfit. A host of metal kitchen
utensils dangled and jangled from his waist.

Polly sighed knowingly. ‘Ah! The Tin Man!’ She grinned at Edna. ‘And Dorothy!’

‘I’m the Tin Man and I’m going to take you all to find the Wizard of Oz,’ Colin exclaimed loudly.

Even Edna’s father smiled as the children, including Polly’s daughter Carol, abandoned quivering jellies and bright pink blancmange. Like a wave of noisy gulls they fell off their chairs and surrounded him. A flock of small voices squealed with delight.

Colin’s parents locked hands, their eyes moist.

Meg chose that moment to come in with the teapot. Ethel breezed in behind her carrying a tray of cups. She looked a lot calmer, but it didn’t last long. Instead of placing them on the table she stopped in her tracks and stared at Colin. Suddenly she screamed, lifted the tray and let it fly.

‘Get out! Get out!’

Cups flew everywhere. The tray hit Colin in the chest and for a moment he wobbled before he managed to grab the door surround.

Edna ran to his side, catching him as he toppled.

The rest of the room was pandemonium, children crying and adults trying to calm things down. Ethel Burbage crouched between two chairs, fingers in her ears and eyes tightly closed.

Charlotte leaned over her. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Burbage. It’s only Colin in his costume.’

Meg bent down beside her. ‘Now there’s a bloody awful way to carry on, Ethel. It’s only yer son-in-law dressed up for the kiddies’ party. Who did you think it was, aye? Boris bloody Karloff?’

‘Storks have got long legs. He’s got long legs and I don’t want to have a baby. I don’t know how it got there. Besides, I’ve changed my mind!’

‘What’s she on about?’ asked Polly.

Charlotte touched her arm. ‘She thinks Colin is a stork.’

Polly looked dumbstruck.

‘His legs,’ mouthed Charlotte. ‘She thinks she’s about to have a baby. Am I right, Meg?’

‘Blimey,’ said Meg. ‘Now you are going back a bit.’

Charlotte went on. ‘She thinks she’s about to give birth and she’s frightened because no one’s told her anything about it and she’s not sure how it got there.’

‘It wasn’t considered nice to discuss things like that in our day,’ said Meg.

‘Still isn’t for some,’ Polly added.

Meg sighed. “We was told the stork brought it or it came from out our belly button. It was a bloody big shock when you found out the truth, I can tell you. For some it was even more of a shock when they found out how it got in! Leave her to me,’ she added to Charlotte. ‘I’ve seen this before.’ Her face was grave.

For once Charlotte was grateful not to take charge of a situation. She stood up and smoothed her dress down over her hips.

‘She’ll be all right.’ She patted Edna’s arm.

Edna shrugged and said bitterly, ‘I don’t care whether she is or isn’t! I wanted today to be perfect. My mother’s spoilt it, just as she’s spoilt everything in my life.’

On the morning of Coronation Day Polly fixed a paper crown onto her daughter’s golden curls with the help of Aunty Meg’s spikiest hairpins. Carol made faces, wincing each time a pin was used.

Polly gave her a good shake. ‘Stop wriggling, you little mare!’

Carol pouted and folded her arms. ‘Why’ve I got to wear this bloody thing anyway? I wore it yesterday.’

Polly turned her round to face her. ‘Because you’ve got to be the best.’ Impatiently she smoothed the child’s wild curls into some sort of order. ‘And you won’t be if you swear like that. I don’t know where the bl—’ She stopped herself from using the same word and made a mental note to mend her own ways, which she’d promised to do a thousand times before. ‘Yesterday doesn’t count,’ she went on. ‘Today does. This street’s going to win the prize for ’avin’ the best Coronation costumes of all – an’ the best decorations.’

And it can do with all the help it can bloody get, she thought. Truth was, she didn’t think they had a cat in hell’s chance. Red-brick council houses, front doors the same green as the buses and metal-framed windows running with condensation, were the devil’s own work to make jolly. She vaguely wondered how the celebrations for the Coronation were going in Australia.

That sunny poster viewed on a damp day in England shone brightly in her mind; A new country for ten pounds each. Once Billy was in the mood …

‘Can I go swimming on Saturday?’

‘No!’

‘Not another Coronation!’

‘No, not another Coronation. You gets things from swimming baths like bad legs and bad arms – and worse.’

‘Like Geraldine Harvey?’ Carol bobbed away and went round the room dragging one leg behind her as she hopped forward. ‘She walks like this ’cos she’s got irons up ’er legs.’

‘That’s why yer not goin’ swimming.’ The paper hat fell over her eyes. ‘Damn!’ Polly grabbed her arm as she loped past and straightened the hat with the aid of a few more hairgrips.

‘Ow!’

‘Keep still.’

Carol brightened. ‘Is Aunty Meg coming to the party?’

Polly nodded. ‘You know she is. She’s upstairs putting on her costume.’ Meg was going to be wearing her Pearly Queen outfit from yesterday. Polly would again be her male escort only today she’d added a moustache by virtue of a line of black lead scrolled along her top lip.

‘Is Dad coming to the party?’

Polly gritted her teeth and looked at the clock. ‘He’d bloody well better be.’

Charlotte was getting ready to help judge the best street party in the whole of Bristol. A local newspaper was sponsoring the event and she felt very proud that they’d asked her to help adjudicate.

She wore a new dress of royal blue with a cinched-in waist and a slimline skirt with a kick-pleat at the back that reached to mid-calf. Charlotte prided herself that, despite having just had
her forty-seventh birthday, her figure had not yet gone to seed. In an effort to add a touch of patriotic fervour, she pinned a bunch of bright red cherries to her lapel then finished the outfit with white gloves and a matching handbag. Her shoes were navy blue. She twirled in front of the mirror.

David gave her a quick peck on the cheek. ‘You look wonderful, darling.’

‘You could come with me,’ she said brightly.

David stopped by the door, a copy of
The Times
tucked beneath his arm. He looked tense. ‘I thought you had enough judges? And I do have to collect Geoffrey from Temple Meads.’

‘You could pick him up from the station and then keep me company,’ she said as she fixed the red straw hat to her head, its shape similar to an upside down dinner plate.

David checked his watch. ‘I thought Janet was going with you.’

‘She has a headache again. Do you think there’s anything seriously wrong with her?’

‘How can I tell? The headache disappears the moment I mention examining her.’

‘Still, she might be better by now.’

Charlotte had arranged to meet the other judges at eleven o’clock at the Mansion House. The Lord Mayor would be attending along with the High Sheriff of Bristol and other notable dignitaries including the editor of the local newspaper group. Speeches would be read, tea and cakes would be on offer and there might – depending on the generosity of Harveys, the famous wine merchants – even be a little sweet sherry with which to toast the incoming monarch.

Charlotte glanced at her watch as she went up the stairs. Ten thirty. The breakfast tray Mrs Grey had taken up to Janet’s room earlier that morning was still outside the door.

Charlotte knocked. ‘Janet? Are you up to keeping me company, darling, or will you go with your father to fetch Geoffrey?’

There was a moment of silence before Janet answered. ‘I’d rather stay here.’

Janet’s voice seemed a little terse and although her daughter’s recurring headaches worried her, Charlotte took her duties to the city very seriously.

‘I’ll see you later, darling. Hope you feel better.’ On the other side of the door Janet looked at herself in the mirror and thought of her conversation with Edna. A bastard child! She could hardly believe it. Funny how you could look at people and assume from their present demeanour, their unassuming ordinariness, that they’d never done anything outrageous in their life. Yet Edna had got pregnant by a man who wasn’t her husband. She had got on with her life – just as she would have to.

Just look at it, thought Geoffrey as the train pulled into Temple Meads Station. He scowled contemptuously at the stupid little triangular flags fluttering above the platform. If he’d had his way he would not have come home to join in the celebrations for something he didn’t believe in. But he could hardly tell his parents that university had caused his views on things to change. Their world – both past and present – was very different to the world he lived in.

As he turned the handle on the carriage door, he saw his father waving to him from where he stood at the side of the newspaper stand. Just before pushing the door open he remembered the badge gleaming a dull red in the lapel of his coat. In all probability his parents would not have a clue what it actually represented. But he couldn’t take that chance. He unpinned it from the front of the lapel and re-pinned it on the
reverse, then patted it flat. No one would know he was wearing it.

He adopted a happy smile and stepped out onto the platform. Hopefully these few weeks would pass with as little unpleasantness as possible. After that he would rejoin his friends, people with enquiring minds who did not accept that the old ways were still the best.

Dusk in Camborne Road found Polly and her neighbours full of food and slightly tipsy.

A beaming policeman stood on the corner against a privet hedge that someone had tried to clip into the shape of a crown, but which actually resembled a doughnut. The policeman swayed from the knees up and looked as though he might tip over. He was tall and thin but his heavy boots anchored him to the spot.

Music blared out from a wind-up record player that sat on a fold-up card table next to a lamppost. Rows of trestle tables groaned with Spam sandwiches, cheese rolls, jellies, blancmanges and thick slices of homemade fruitcake that stuck to the teeth and lay heavy in the belly.

‘You’d think ’e’ed join the party,’ said Aunty Meg, eyeing the young policeman. There again, ’e don’t look old enough to be out.’

Polly was unconvinced. ‘He’s a copper. He’s always on duty.’

Being married to Billy had taught Polly a lot. Many’s the time he’d been out selling nylons, chocolate or clockwork toys from Hong Kong on the wooden cart he pulled along behind his bicycle. Just as he was getting an interested little crowd around him, the local bobby would appear.

‘Round the corner,’ the copper would say. And Billy would go round the corner, knowing what the next question would be.

‘Got a licence?’

Of course he didn’t. So a ten shilling note would change hands – more if he wasn’t selling anything but doing a book on Ascot or the Gold Cup. Street bookies were becoming an endangered species.

Aunty Meg slipped a crochet needle out from the pocket of her manly jacket and used it to scratch at her hair, which she wore in ‘earphones’ – plaits coiled around her ears, dated now but Meg reckoned she was too old to change. ‘Where’s Billy?’ she asked Polly.

‘As far away from ’ere as possible.’ She grimaced. ‘I hope.’

Unfortunately that wasn’t the case. At that very moment Billy entered the opposite end of the street in the borrowed black van.

Polly swallowed hard. Pound to a penny there would still be boxes in the back that hadn’t so much fallen off the back of a lorry as flown swiftly from one vehicle to the other.

Polly glanced at the young constable hoping to God he’d seen nothing. Luckily he was eyeing up a threesome of giggling girls so hadn’t noticed Billy’s arrival. The girls were all around seventeen years old, giddy with the minimum of ruby wine and dry cider and showing a good six inches of bare thigh above steel-clasped stocking tops as they kicked their legs into the air.

Reasoning the copper was a soft touch and easily distracted, the Pearly King cap was flung to one side, the tie was loosened and shirt buttons were undone enough to show her cleavage. She checked the effect.
Not bad, considering you’re no spring chicken.