Women on the Home Front (94 page)

Grace raised her voice a little. ‘Mrs Green … Vicky Green.' She was beginning to wish she hadn't wasted an afternoon to come on a wild-goose chase, especially as her friend Wendy had felt obliged to type an urgent report for her so Grace could tell their supervisor everything would be covered in her absence.

Fifteen minutes ago she'd arrived at the Clapham address that she'd covertly copied from her mother's notebook. The woman at the property had told her she believed the Greens had moved around the corner, close to Clapham Junction, just after the war. But it seemed the elderly occupant of this house was also on the point of sending her on her way. Grace glumly realised she was having no luck locating the woman who might know Pam Plummer's whereabouts.

‘Ah … Mrs Green.' The grizzled face nodded at her, and the old gentleman indicated the house to his right with his thumb. He shuffled back inside, shutting the door, leaving Grace staring at its coloured glass panel. She retraced her steps along the path and carefully latched the creaky wooden gate. She'd reached her destination and, after all her efforts, felt her courage oddly draining away. It was tempting to turn around and head home rather than explain her business to a stranger. And she realised her faintheartedness sprang from the fact that it wasn't actually her business at all that had brought her here; it was Christopher's.

When she'd set out she'd been fired with confidence and certainty, but now she was having second thoughts and wondering whether Chris would think she was interfering, rather than helping.

He had no idea she'd come here, or that she'd got Vicky Green's address from her mum. Grace hadn't told him about it because he'd been shilly-shallying about looking for his mother since his father had had a setback. Stevie had fallen on a wet floor in the hospital bathroom and ever since Chris had been unwilling to discuss Pamela.

Yesterday evening, when Grace had tried to gently impress on him again that it was the right time to do some detective work without upsetting Stevie, they had ended up bickering. She'd spent a restless night turning things over in her mind but had decided Chris would be relieved if she took the initiative and resumed the search. His father couldn't then blame him for going behind his back. But now she was having second thoughts …

Grace surfaced from her reflection to see the old boy had lifted an edge of his net curtain and was watching her loitering on the pavement. He gave her a smile and again jabbed his thumb at number thirty-seven. Grace acknowledged him by wriggling a few fingers then, taking a deep breath, walked next door. She knocked and waited. She knocked again and felt a twinge of shame as her clenched hands began to relax because nobody was at home.

‘Who are you?'

Grace pivoted about to find a woman in a floral summer dress, a shopping bag in each hand, crossing the road to hurry towards her. On reaching the gate she struggled, juggling bags, to lift the latch.

‘Sorry …' Grace burbled with a faltering smile. ‘Are you Mrs Green?'

‘Who wants to know?'

‘Well … I do …' Grace said, feeling intimidated by her brusque manner.

‘And who are you?'

The woman was standing close to her on the path now, her head with its fading blonde hair cocked to one side. Grace could see that once she'd been an attractive woman and, in common with her mother, she was making an attempt to hang on to her youth by using a lot of make-up.

‘I'm Grace Coleman and my mum used to know a woman called Vicky Watson who married a Mr Green …'

‘Shirley Coleman's daughter, are you?'

Grace finally got a smile.

‘Well, well … haven't heard that name for a good while. Sort of lost touch with Shirley.' She looked Grace up and down. ‘Still in Islington, are you? I remember your dad joined up and the rest of you were off to Surrey to get away from the bombing.'

‘We live in Tottenham now …'

Grace watched Vicky turn the key in the lock of her front door then edge in sideways with her bulky bags.

‘Well, come in, then,' Vicky invited. ‘Might as well have a cuppa as you've come all this way, although I've got to say, I'm not sure
why
you have,' she added bluntly. She suddenly dropped her shopping and twisted about. ‘Oh, you've not come in person to tell me your mum …' She jerked her head twice, indicating she'd rather not utter the final word.

‘Oh, no … no … she's fine,' Grace reassured the woman, and followed her inside.

‘Pam Plummer … now there's another name from the past,' Vicky said, putting down her cup. ‘I often wonder what happened to all those people I used to know in Islington.'

They were seated now, in a neat front room, in fireside chairs that had a square table wedged between them, holding a plate of rich tea biscuits.

Grace sipped her tea. ‘My mum told me you all knew one another from your schooldays. So I wondered if you kept in touch with Pam and have her address.'

‘Does Shirley want to get in touch with her?' Vicky asked in surprise.

Grace hesitated, not wanting to lie, but not wanting to tell the truth either. She knew Chris considered searching for his mother a very personal matter. ‘Mum was going on the other day about once having lots of friends; I think she's a bit lonely since dad died a few years ago. He got injured in the war and never really recovered,' she explained, having noticed Vicky's enquiring look.

‘Very sorry to hear that …' Vicky murmured.

‘Anyway, I've been thinking about a street party for Coronation Day next June,' Grace said brightly. ‘There's less than a year to go now till the big day. I thought it'd be a great idea to have a get-together … and that it might be nice to find a few of Mum's old friends.' Grace knew that it was best not to mention that Matilda Keiver was involved, or that the party would be held in The Bunk. That news would be sure to make Vicky fire some very awkward questions at her. ‘Mum doesn't know I'm here,' Grace added carefully. If it came about that a reunion did take place at some time she didn't want her fibs causing her mum problems. ‘So it would be a nice surprise for her if it goes ahead … 'Course I'll let people know in good time …'

Vicky stood up and went to a little bureau. ‘Last I heard of Pam she was living in Bexleyheath with her husband. But that was before the war, so it's a while and they might have moved on.'

‘Husband?' Grace echoed.

‘Yeah … second husband, name of Stanley Riley. Your mum would know she got divorced when she was young, but probably not that she'd remarried. When we all lived around Islington, Pam got involved with a rough family. She married one of them, worse for her, and lived to regret it.' Vicky pursed her lips in thought. ‘I remember she had a son, but her ex-husband brought the boy up. God knows what sort of tyke
he
turned into. You should ask your mum about the Wilds, she'll remember them, I'm sure, and tell you there wasn't a good one amongst them.'

Grace lowered her eyes and sipped from her tea but she felt her indignation burning. Her mum had told her that this woman had very much hoped to marry into that
rough family
. ‘I think I've heard of Rob Wild,' she said. ‘He's done well for himself, hasn't he?'

Vicky swung about to give her a hard stare. ‘He's done well alright … by treading on other people. He was a horrible, selfish man; the worst of the lot of 'em.' She opened the small address book she'd fished out of the bureau. ‘Shall I write down the address for you?'

‘Oh, I can remember it, thanks …'

It seemed that twenty-five years on, Vicky Watson, as she'd been, still hadn't got over her pique at being dropped by Rob Wild. Grace felt relieved she'd not mentioned the Keivers or the Wilds when talking about Coronation Day street parties moments ago.

‘Pam might have a telephone number, I suppose, but I haven't got it listed here,' Vicky said, turning the pages back and forth.

‘Don't worry, the address will do; thanks a lot for helping out with that,' Grace said, standing up. ‘Thanks for tea.'

As Grace was leaving the house Vicky muttered, ‘Oh, my husband's home early.'

Grace glanced over a shoulder and saw a soberly dressed, balding gentleman marching along on the opposite pavement. He appeared to be close to retirement age and wore spectacles and a pinched expression. She turned to smile farewell and understood the sour look on Vicky's face. She'd not yet met Chris's uncle but if what her mother had said about him were true, Mr Green would have been a very poor substitute for Robert Wild.

‘Will you work in your dad's business, when you finish school?'

‘He wants me to, so does Mum.' Daisy Wild had tilted her dark head towards Grace to whisper her reply. ‘Mum always wanted to be a secretary before she got married. They think I should do a commercial course so I can do the firm's books.' She dismissed it with a hand flick. ‘I'd rather do hairdressing for a while then find a rich husband to look after me.'

‘You've got a nice lot of qualifications and can get yourself a good job, young lady,' the birthday girl's mother told her from across the dining table. Despite her mild reprimand, Faye allowed her husband to pour their daughter a glass of Sauternes.

Daisy wrinkled her nose and continued attacking her roast potatoes. ‘You've got lovely hair; it's an unusual colour … sort of caramel blonde, isn't it,' she chattered. ‘I bet it'd look good in a bun. Do you wear it up much? I could do it for you later. I like to practise on my friends at school.'

‘Leave poor Grace alone.' Faye smiled in wry apology. ‘She's trying to eat.'

‘Sometimes I put it in a bun,' Grace told Daisy as she tucked into her lamb. The meal was delicious and she'd already complimented their hostess on an excellent roast. Grace had been immediately made to feel welcome by the members of Chris's family she'd not previously met.

‘You work in an office, don't you, Grace?' Faye sounded interested. ‘Do you like secretarial work?'

‘Yes, I do. I'm in a typing pool so it's a bit hectic but we're lucky to have a good boss. The work gets shared out fairly and we're paid for overtime.'

Faye gave her daughter a significant look.

‘You listen to your mum, and to Grace, and you won't go far wrong.' Rob pointed his fork at Daisy in emphasis. ‘And I don't want to hear talk of husbands, rich or otherwise, for a good while yet.'

‘Mum wasn't much older than me when she married you,' Daisy chipped in with a saucy smile.

‘That's enough backchat, young lady,' her father told her. ‘You just concentrate on finishing your schooling. Eat your dinner.'

‘Leave the girl alone,' Matilda growled, putting down her knife and fork. ‘If she likes doing hair, let her do hair. It's a job. Ain't as if she's telling you she's planning to sit around on her backside and sponge off you.'

‘Thanks, Auntie,' Daisy muttered with a glimmering look for her parents and a subtle smile for Matilda.

It made a refreshing change for Grace to listen to people airing their opinions without an atmosphere ensuing. At home, a prolonged silence would have been the result of a difference with her mother, not that Shirley would ever allow anything so common to occur while they had company.

‘Well, this is nice,' Faye said contentedly as there was a lull in conversation and only the chink of busy cutlery, and a stifled burp from Matilda, was heard. ‘It's been a long time since we had a little get-together on a Sunday. Of course, it's a shame Stevie can't be here.'

It had been inevitable that talk would turn to the invalid.

‘I went in to see him last night,' Rob informed them. ‘He told me an Irish family have moved into the street.' He'd addressed the remark to his nephew but his aunt came back with an answer.

‘They're called Murphy. Nice people,' was Matilda's succinct opinion. ‘Noreen was in the shop getting a bit of bread and tea on the strap yesterday. Poor sods have got two little gels 'n' all to feed.'

‘Causing any trouble?' Again Rob's question was directed at Chris.

‘Told you they're nice people,' Matilda replied bluntly.

‘They are nice enough.' Chris endorsed his aunt's view. ‘Feel sorry for 'em if anything, having to make do with a dump like that … no offence, Auntie.'

‘None taken,' Matilda grunted, and continued her conversation with Pearl.

‘The fellow's called Kieran and he's started working with O'Connor's crew. He asked me for a job first but I knew you'd say nuthin' doing.' Chris realised it wasn't the time or place for a discussion about work so he simply let the subject drop.

He had guessed that Kieran would eventually be forced to take any offer of employment that came his way. But he hadn't caused Wild Brothers any problems. He didn't join in any catcalling that came from the rival gang, and seemed to want to keep his distance from his colleagues. Chris could tell he was the sort of man who simply wanted to keep his nose clean and provide for his family.

‘Have you been in to visit Stevie today, Pearl?' Matilda asked, in between trying to dislodge something from her teeth.

Pearl shook her head, thrusting plump fingers through her hair in a gesture of exasperation. ‘Popping in this evening. Driving me mad now, he is, going on about coming home. I reckon the doctor'll chuck him out in the end just for a quiet life.'

‘He's been whingeing at me as well about it,' Chris said, spearing another roast potato from the bowl in the centre of the table. ‘I reckon he's about to discharge himself.' He'd done justice to Faye's superb cooking. Even after second helpings, and a few extras, he'd cleared his plate. ‘That's the best dinner I've had in a long while.'

‘I know your dad can pull off a decent roast,' Faye remarked. ‘I've tasted a few of his dinners and they're not half bad.'