Coronation Wives (19 page)

She sat herself in the swivel armchair behind the desk, her attention already straying to the open file and the letters within. ‘I phoned him tonight,’ she said briskly. ‘He’s quite happy about it, in fact he said it would make a nice change to have some male company around. I am really amazed at your
attitude, Janet. I’ve always thought you were like me in many ways. You’re not usually so off with people like Ivan.’

‘It’s just …’ Janet began. Mentally, she berated herself. Say it! Say it now, tell her why you can’t help being hostile, especially about the voice, that voice she still remembered. But she couldn’t say it and instead settled for, ‘It just takes some getting used to.’

Charlotte sighed and rubbed the tiredness from her forehead as she settled down at her desk. ‘Well, there are only two choices. You either get used to it or you don’t.’

Dismissed! Dismissed like some schoolgirl in the headmistress’s study. But she didn’t go, just stood there, waiting for something else to be said.

Her mother seemed to have forgotten she was there. She had shut the file in which the reference to Edna appeared and was fussing with other bits of paper, placing them on top the file, picking up a pen, assuming an instant busyness.

Get out! Get out! Get out!

Janet slammed the door behind her. That night she locked her bedroom door and lay fully clothed on the bed, listening to Ivan moving about in the room immediately above her own. Eventually the tell-tale sound of springs in a tired mattress assured her that he’d got into bed. Soon he’d be sleeping, not prowling the house.

I can’t stay here, she decided, her eyes suddenly snapping wide open. ‘I
won’t stay
here!’ She planned what she must do. First, a new job. Then a place of her own.

Down in the study, Charlotte sighed and buried her head in her hands. Too many problems, she thought. There are too many problems in this world without having a daughter who was old enough to know better. Goodness, she thought, I was married at her age.

Now she was alone, it was safe to take the file referring to
Edna from beneath the pile of papers she had used to conceal it. She took out the latest letter from Josef stating that the party concerned wanted a response to their enquiry about Edna Burbage. The adoptive parents had been in Germany because the father was a military attaché at the embassy. They’d gone skiing one weekend and got caught in an avalanche. Carlos had been left behind at the chateau they’d been renting. The grandmother was disinclined to have him back in Brazil, hence Josef’s involvement.

Good God, she thought, Edna’s got enough to contend with; a disabled husband, another child on the way. Would she really want to know about her firstborn?

Brookman’s words came back to her.
Best say she’s dead …

Yes! Tell them that, then tear the letters into little pieces as if neither they nor Edna had ever existed.

So far she had merely delayed doing anything, had told Josef that she was in the process of trying to trace Edna. She felt guilty about holding things up, but she had to be sure. Give it a little while longer and she would know exactly what to do.

At the end of a showery Tuesday, a rainbow spanned the Avon Gorge. Polly spotted it and decided it was a good omen. Today would be the day to tell Billy about her plans for a new life in Australia.

He picked her up from Charlotte’s at about four o’clock – nothing unusual about that. But something was different. The van looked too shiny, too new.

Australia suddenly took a back seat. Polly frowned at the gleaming black bodywork. ‘Have you polished this van?’

Billy winked. ‘It’s a new one. Nice, innit?’ He said it as though new vans were easily found and easily bought, then saw her look of disbelief. ‘Not really new,’ he added almost apologetically. ‘But newer than the old one.’

Polly frowned at him in a practised way, designed to burn into his brain and force an explanation. ‘Are you ’aving me on?’

‘’Course not, Poll! It’s all above board, honest! You know me.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of, Billy, and honesty don’t come into it!’

‘Trust me. It’s all paid for. And,’ he added, a joyous look on his face, ‘it’s all mine – well, just for now.’

Polly eyed him warily and shook her head. ‘It had better be
just for now, Billy Hills, or I’ll have them same words done on yer tombstone: Here lies Billy Hills – Just for Now! That’s after I’ve killed ya!’

As they drove across Durdham Down Billy said, ‘Gotta pop up the Gloucester Road a minute. Bit of business to attend to.’

Polly didn’t argue. There was no rush and she quite liked driving past the queues standing four deep and fourteen long at the bus stops. In fact, it made her feel like a queen and she was almost tempted to give a royal wave, all slow and serene as though she were saving her energy for better things. Meg would get Carol’s tea when she got home from school and it was a Tuesday. Polly didn’t work at the pictures on a Tuesday.

Billy cut down from Clifton onto Gloucester Road and towards Ashley Down where people lived who had money, but weren’t quite as refined as those in Clifton. They eventually stopped outside a house that had high walls and iron gates.

Polly’s eyes opened wide with surprise. ‘Bloody hell! Who do we know who lives ’ere?’

‘Great mate of mine,’ said Billy tipping his trilby back on his head as he gave her a quick peck on the cheek. ‘Won’t be long.’

Billy went through the gates, the gravel grinding underfoot as he bounced over the drive and up to the front door. At first sight his thin frame and the imposing facade seemed to have little in common. Then it occurred to her that he’d taken it in his head to rob it. No. Of course not. Silly cow! Did burglars walk up bold as brass to the front door? Not unless they were stupid. Well … possibly.

She leaned forward so she could see the house better. It wasn’t too old, which was just as well because she wasn’t too fond of old places, but this particular place did have a certain grandeur. She liked the ‘Odeon’ style, the sleek white facades and black, metal-framed windows. She’d seen them before from the top of a number thirty-six bus out at Brislington near the
Bath Road. There was a whole rank of them there just past the White Hart. This place was posher and bigger. Polly was very impressed. White steps led up to square pillars supporting a curved canopy above a flush-fitted front door. Curving windows from either side of the door swept off round the corner of the house.

It was not yet dusk so there were no lights on in the shiny white house. Shame, thought Polly, squinting severely in an effort to see inside. She liked looking inside people’s houses, admiring their dining suites and envying their carpets. That’s why she always went upstairs on the bus – besides having a smoke, that is. Being nosy was fun.

Fifteen minutes later Billy came out beaming and bouncing his way back to the van. Except for the fact that his clothes weren’t as good as they used to be, no one would ever guess that he didn’t own much and kept his wealth in a tea caddy rather than in a bank.

‘All done!’ he said as he slid back onto the warm leather of the driver’s seat.

Polly eyed him warily. ‘What’s all done? Who lives there? What have you been up to?’

‘Now don’t you worry yerself.’

‘I do worry, Billy Hills! And I want to know
now
what you’ve been up to. I’m getting out of here and I’m not getting back in—’

Billy reached for the door handle and pulled it shut. ‘Calm down! Not here!’ The cocky exuberance was gone from his voice. He sounded anxious. ‘Not here,’ he said and nodded towards the house. Two men had come out. They were broad-shouldered, wore double-breasted suits and felt hats. They stood either side of the door eyeing the van like a pair of hungry wolves.

Polly caught the fear in his voice and felt her stomach sink
to her knees. It wasn’t the first time Billy had erred slightly off the straight and narrow. He was no saint and she was not usually a worrier, but there was always a first time and this was it.

‘What have you been up to?’ she asked as they drove off.

‘I’ll tell you when we get home.’

She let it be, but continued to worry. As he drove Billy licked the sweat off his top lip. It hung in beads on his forehead too. Polly eyed him with an air of misgiving. She’d loved the house he’d taken her to. Judging by the outside she’d love the inside even more. But Billy and his ‘business’ exploits were a continual concern. Her marriage had not been made in heaven – for a start they’d never have let Billy in.

Meg put egg and chips on the table when they got home and the smell of the suet they’d been fried in necessitated the opening of the living room window.

Carol was full of chatter about what she’d done at school and rattled a tin under their nose. ‘We’re collecting for the Peskylot Children’s Villages,’ she said proudly. ‘It’s for all the little children with no mummies and daddies and no house to live in.’

Billy looked to Polly for an explanation. ‘Who the ’ell are they?’

‘I think she’s got the name wrong. It’s foreign,’ explained Polly. ‘Her ladyship – ’er up Clifton – has got a hand in it, among other things.’

Polly made no apology for speaking about Charlotte in such a disparaging tone. Even though her jealousy for Charlotte had lessened over the years she couldn’t get out of the habit of treating her with less than respect.

Billy obligingly put half a crown in Carol’s collecting tin. Polly raised her eyes to heaven. ‘Generous bugger! Charity begins at ’ome. Ain’t you ’eard that?’

Billy laughed like a ten-year-old as he grabbed the tin from Carol, shook it maraca style over his head and danced around the room with Carol in hot pursuit.

‘It’s not really called Peskylot,’ Polly explained to Billy after they’d eaten and she was drying the dishes while Meg did the washing. The collecting tin for the Pestalozzi Children’s Homes was on the sideboard. Carol was out in the street with other kids swinging on a rope that had been strung over a lamppost.

‘I knew that! I ain’t daft, am I?’

Polly grimaced, the grinding of her teeth almost painful to her jaw. ‘I do wonder at times, Billy Hills. And don’t duck down behind that paper. I ain’t daft either and I still want to know what you’ve been up to!’

‘Later, love,’ he said, his head disappearing behind the
Evening Post
which Meg’s friend, Bridget, had brought round for him. No one had got round to telling the old Dutch that Billy couldn’t read much beyond his own name. At the moment he was looking at a cartoon strip, the sort that didn’t have any words.

‘Billy! I want a talk with you.’ Polly gave Meg a meaningful look.

Meg immediately put down the plate she was washing and wiped her hands.

Polly slammed her hand down on the newspaper. Billy looked up at her nervously, hoping Meg would stay if only long enough to build up his courage.

But Meg was having none of it. ‘I’m off to see Bridget,’ she said and left the kitchen.

Billy sank lower in his chair as if that would make him less noticeable and not worth having a go at. But there was no getting away with it. They were alone and Polly had her arms folded, was stretched to a full five feet hardly anything, and
her jaw was as square as Desperate Dan’s. Billy was trapped. It crossed his mind to sugar the pill a little. His face brightened. His hand dived into the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘Here,’ he said bringing out a roll of grubby ten shilling and pound notes. ‘Have a couple of pounds. Get yerself something nice.’

Polly stared at the money. A smart little black dress she’d seen in Rollos Modes, an expensive dress shop in North Street, Bedminster, danced like Cyd Charisse into her mind.

Billy’s face brightened. It looked as though he was off the hook.

Polly’s moment of weakness passed. Cyd Charisse danced out of her mind, replaced by a mean, scrawny little guy with a cheeky patter. ‘Bloody hell, Billy. You’re a soddin’ crook. Do you know that? I don’t know what the bloody ’ell I’m goin’ to do with you!’

Billy got to his feet and tried smiles and a few soft words. ‘Now come on. You don’t really believe that sweet’art. You know I do it all for you.’

He attempted an embrace. Polly brushed him away. ‘Do all what for me, Billy?’

She glared at him in the same way she did at Carol about torn school clothes or a cauliflower ear appearing on Bully Bradford from next door.

Billy tried one more time. ‘Darlin’—’

Polly stood firm. ‘Go on. Tell me all about it.’

Slowly it came out. He was running bets for the man who lived in the house at Ashley Down. He was one of many, but he reckoned he had the best pitch – up near the Rovers Football Ground on a Saturday afternoon, which meant he also got a lot of punters for the dog track on the night.

“Which means I make more than anyone, far more than the geezer expects.’

The moment he said that, Polly knew what he was doing. ‘You’re creaming off! You’re keeping some of the money!’

‘Yeah, but—’ Billy began, his broad grin still intact, his head held to one side, a thing he always did when he was about to make feeble excuses.

‘But nothing! I saw they blokes that came out of that house. They make James Cagney look like Pinocchio! You’ve got to stop.’

Polly was angry. Then Billy turned on the boyish charm and she found herself weakening. The toe-rag still had the cheeky grin that had warmed her heart when she’d first met him. That grin had helped her forget the glamour of the Americans and Canadians she’d known. Sometimes she wished it hadn’t.

‘It’ll be OK,’ he said with a disarming smile. ‘I can’t lose.’

Polly felt as if her blood was turning to steam. ‘Lose! Are you mad? Of course you can lose. Lose the money and lose your freedom if the police catch you. Lose yer arms if this geezer finds out you’re creamin’. You know I hate you getting involved with blokes like that.’

He had done it before. On those occasions his pitch hadn’t been so good and the money earned hadn’t been enough to compensate for having to leg it once the cops turned up. This time he told her, it was different.

‘Different? Of course it’s different! He’s a crook! He’ll break your legs if he finds out you’re keeping some of the money and only passing on a few of the bets.’