Coronation Wives (27 page)

She started in that direction, but he grabbed her arm.

‘But this room is far more impressive.’ He guided her to a door in the corner of the room. The door was solid, six-panelled mahogany, yet it eased open softly like the swish of a curtain.

The bedroom was magnificent. Plaster vines, leaves and grapes covered the ceiling. The walls were mint green, the curtains cream brocade. The bed was impossibly outrageous and dominated the room.

Janet’s mouth dropped open. ‘It’s a tester bed!’

‘Tester? Oh. I suppose you mean a four-poster.’

She took another step into the room, her eyes racing over the shiny wood and enamelled portraits set into a baroque
credenza. An Edwardian wardrobe decorated with art deco tulips around its full-length mirrors sat on the other side of the room. Although it could not match the credenza for pedigree, its quality was unimpeachable along with the Victorian nursing chair, the sweetheart settee, and the lyre-ended, military table.

Janet was awestruck. ‘It’s a lovely room.’

Jonathan seemed to swell with pride. ‘I knew you’d like it.’

‘Oh yes.’

The Indian carpet was ragged along one edge. Janet did not notice it until the heel of her loose shoe caught and she staggered forward.

Jonathan stopped her from falling flat on her face. She went down on one knee, like a debutante being presented to Queen Victoria. Flustered, she scrambled to her feet as the contents of her handbag fell onto the floor. The packet of French letters fell on top of everything else.

Inwardly, Janet groaned.

Jonathan picked up her handbag and put back into it everything that had fallen out – except for the French letters.

Damn Dorothea!

Jonathan was smiling, the afternoon sun seeming to make his eyes gleam more than she’d ever noticed. ‘Janet. What a wise woman you are. I knew we understood each other.’

‘No,’ she said shaking her head. ‘You’ve got it wrong.’

He looked puzzled. ‘You do know what these are, don’t you?’

Her face felt hotter than hell. ‘Of course I do!’

He rested his hands on her shoulders and gazed into her eyes like some Hollywood idol from the silver screen. It crossed her mind that he’d rehearsed the part many times before.

‘You don’t need to be embarrassed. I’m a modern man. You’re a modern woman. We both have needs. What’s wrong with satisfying them?’

‘Everything!’ Janet shrugged his hands off her shoulders. Dorothea’s conviction that Jonathan was offering her more than a job was ringing true. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want the job. Now take me home.’

He eyed the offending packet. ‘But these?’

‘My friend Dorothea gave them to me. She misconstrued, just like you.’

‘Obviously.’ He shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. He looked genuinely hurt. ‘I feel a bloody fool. I thought you wanted to get out of that hole you’re in. I thought you wanted to work more closely with medicine
and
to leave home.’

‘I’m sorry.’ It was all she could think of to say and she felt an idiot saying it, even being here.

Jonathan took it as an opening for a second chance. He stood between her and the window, stroked her hair and said, ‘Imagine how wonderful it could be, working together during the day, and at night …’

The gap between them was minuscule. Janet guessed his motive, took a step back and glared at him. She was seeing him differently now. What she’d interpreted as confidence she now knew to be conceit. No doubt his mother had told him time and time again that he was a good doctor, a handsome catch, but first and foremost, an adorable and loyal son.

‘What would your mother think if she knew you were trying to seduce me?’

His expression tightened. Janet continued, ‘My mother met her. Did you know that? Should we let her know that we’re becoming more than friends?’

Mention of his mother seemed to change everything about him. He looked haunted, almost as if he were a boy again, dabbling in something that his mother had specifically banned.

His voice turned cold. ‘She’s not to know about you,’ he blurted. ‘She’s very precious to me. She gets hurt very easily.’

Stunned to silence, he strode to the window, his hands clenched behind his back. His height and breadth seemed to fill the frame blocking out the view. It was probably no more than a few seconds, though it seemed longer, before he recovered his composure, turned and shook his head mournfully. ‘What a shame, and I thought we understood each other.’

He was himself again, glowing with confidence and the self-satisfaction of a handsome, professional man, a doting, loving son.

Janet headed for the door. ‘I want to go home – now!’

She presumed they would drive back to Bristol in silence. It surprised her at how quickly Jonathan recovered, as if nothing had happened. He talked of medical matters, of the insensitive stupidity that prevented patients receiving visitors, of heated pools, of swimming lessons and, most of all, of the new vaccine being developed in America on which everyone was pinning great hopes.

When they got to Royal York Crescent he said without a trace of bitterness, ‘I’ll give you a week to reconsider. After that I’ll have to tell Professor Pritchard that he’ll have to look elsewhere for a new secretary.’

Tight-lipped, Janet left him there. If she’d attempted to tell him exactly how she was feeling, she would end up in tears and she didn’t want to appear weak, not in front of him. The new job, complete with a place to live, had seemed like a dream. The dream was over. Reality had settled in.

Later, she pulled her purse and her scarf out of her handbag and lay both on the dressing table. The interior of her handbag looked oddly bereft although her lipstick, powder compact and tortoiseshell comb were still there. ‘Those things …’ she muttered to herself. Just to make sure, she ran her hands around the silk lining in case the condoms had slipped through an undiscovered rip.

They weren’t there. Jonathan had picked them up.

‘So will you think about it?’ Dorothea asked her the next day at lunch. They were in the hospital canteen, which had high ceilings and was brightly lit. They sat at tables draped with gingham oilcloth, on modern chairs formed from free-flowing plywood on thin metal frames.

The tea was only lukewarm. One sip was enough. Janet slammed the cup into the saucer. ‘Not unless the sea freezes over and we have pink snow at Christmas.’

Dorothea giggled. ‘Fancy dropping those johnnies, darling. What a giggle!’

Janet grimaced at first, but it quickly became a grin. ‘As if a woman would ever carry such things around in her handbag.’ Her grin vanished when she saw Dorothea looking at her nonplussed. ‘Ah,’ Janet said. ‘I should have known
you’d
carry them around with you.’

Dorothea shrugged. ‘Common sense, darling. By the way, have you still got them?’

‘No. I left them behind.’ She went on to tell Dorothea how Jonathan had sneakily slid them into his pocket.

‘So you’re not the only fish in the sea, darling.’

‘Obviously not.’

‘Oh well. I’ll have to get some more.’

Janet remembered the night she’d caught her brother in the altogether except for a condom – obviously supplied by Dorothea.

‘While we’re on the subject of sex, what exactly is the position between you and my brother?’

Dorothea grinned. ‘He was suggestive and I was willing. I think those girls at university aren’t very forthcoming.’

‘And what about Henry? I thought you two were engaged.’

‘Ah yes. But that’s a long-term thing, you see. Geoffrey is just a diversion. Do you mind?’

‘Why should I?’

The ringing of a bell signified the end of lunchtime.

‘For whom the bells tolls.’

They got to their feet accompanied by the sound of metal chair legs scraping across the floor.

Janet sighed gloomily. ‘The bell tolls for me. A whole afternoon of typing out the uniform mending rota, swiftly followed by another catalogue of laundry lists.’

‘Isn’t there anything to make you reconsider Jonathan’s offer?’ Dorothea asked as they pushed through the swing doors and out into the corridor followed by the all-pervading smell of mashed potato and fishcakes.

Janet shook her head. ‘It would have to be something pretty earth-shattering to make me change my mind.’

Polly was sitting on a dining chair in Edna’s front room having her hair permed, the stink of the lotion permeating the whole house and sending the kids into coughing fits. Colin ushered everyone, including Carol who had come with her mother, out into the garden.

‘We had a drop of rain last night, but the grass is almost dry now,’ he said as they all piled out of the back door.

‘Let’s play cowboys and Indians!’ shouted Peter as he galloped around the lawn slapping his sides and making clip-clopping sounds.

Carol was contemptuous. ‘That’s silly.’

Susan slumped onto the low wall that ran between the lawn and the house. ‘I’ve got a bad head and my legs ache.’

Colin suggested football. ‘Come on, Susan. If yer feet get going that headache might go too. How about it?’

Susan nodded and got up. Colin noticed her flushed cheeks, but seeing her make the effort to join in, told himself she was perfectly all right.

The game turned noisy, mostly on account of Carol and Peter pushing and shoving each other away from the ball, both kicking it at the same time, and breaking every rule including the ones from boxing, more than once did an elbow or a fist venture below the belt.

Fed up of being relegated to goal, Colin did his best to chase and kick the ball, confident that, as an adult, he could keep up with them.

Gait awkward and legs stiff, he staggered across the lawn, forcing himself to go faster even though he waddled dangerously from side to side. Pretending he was young again helped him forget that the bottom halves of his legs were long gone, that the replacements were tin and not at all flexible.

‘You look like Noddy!’ shouted Peter as Colin trundled around like a wooden soldier, feet slipping on the damp grass.

‘Come on then, Big Ears,’ shouted Colin as he fought to dribble the ball down the centre of the lawn, ‘tackle me! Come on! Tackle me!’

Both children chased him while Carol tried to tackle him from the front. Peter caught up and aimed a hard kick at Colin’s shin. Colin yelped, was about to joke that it hurt, when his leg slid out from under him.

Everything happened too fast to be avoided. He fell backwards, his feet leaving muddy ruts in the grass.

‘No!’ he shouted as the horror of what was about to happen became all too clear.

Susan screamed as his weight fell on top of her.

Colin’s first thought was for his daughter. ‘Susan!’

Carol ran for help. By the time Edna and Polly ran into the garden, he had managed to roll onto his side.

‘Susan!’

Her eyes were closed. He reached out and felt the heat of her cheek.

Edna knelt between them both, a horrified look on her face. ‘What happened?’

‘I slipped.’

‘Blinking ’eck,’ said Polly. ‘You almost buried her.’

Normally, he would have screamed in pretend terror at the sight of Polly with her head encased in pink plastic curlers and tissue paper. But his back ached, his legs ached and, most of all, his heart ached for Susan.

Edna got down behind her daughter, took hold of her head and rested it in her lap. Polly ordered Carol to get a glass of water from the kitchen.

Polly and Carol got Colin onto his feet.

‘Daddy tackled me for the ball,’ said Peter, his lower lip quivering with fear lest guilty glares be turned in his direction.

Colin’s face creased with concern and his breathing was laboured. ‘It’s my fault. I had no business kicking that ball about.’

Polly squeezed his arm. ‘Don’t be silly.’

Edna eased the glass of water between her daughter’s lips. ‘Come on, dear. Just a little.’

Susan spluttered, opened her eyes and drank a little more. She nodded weakly when Edna asked her if she was all right.

After Polly had gone and the children were put to bed, Colin went back out into the garden.

‘Nearly finished!’ Edna shouted to him, presuming the smell of the perming lotion had driven him out to watch the house martins weave and wheel around the houses and towards the disused air raid shelters down towards Conham Vale. The light was fading fast, but a strip of gilt-edged clouds hovered on the horizon.

Colin picked up a stick that Peter used as a riding whip and began tapping it against his legs. They made a hollow sound, a grim reminder that they were made of metal, not flesh and
blood. I sound like a bunch of old corned beef cans, he thought, almost grinned, then recalled Susan’s flame-coloured cheeks. Good God, he was no lightweight. He could have killed her.

He didn’t often feel sorry for himself, but tonight he wished with all his heart that he still had his legs. Tonight he felt real hatred for those who had caused the blast that had taken them. No more football. No more cricket. No more swimming or gliding around a dance floor to a quickstep or a foxtrot. A waltz was barely manageable.

He brushed the moisture from his eyes.

‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’

With each word he beat his right leg with the stick. On the third stroke it broke into two pieces and he threw them away.

Later that evening, Edna finished pinning and cutting out a new dress for Susan without any need to reread the instructions. ‘Beautiful,’ she said as she folded up the blue silk material and closed her sewing box. ‘Just like our Susan.’

Colin didn’t answer. He’d hardly said a word all evening but sat staring at the television set even though it wasn’t switched on. He reminds me of my mother, thought Edna, but swiftly banished the thought. Her mother and Colin were worlds apart.

Edna fixed her eyes on him as she left her sewing things and went to the back of his chair, slid her hands down over his shoulders and onto his chest. ‘Stop worrying,’ she murmured and kissed his ear. ‘Susan’s fine. She’s a very tough little girl.’

‘I could have killed her,’ he said, and his face creased with worry.

Edna squeezed his shoulders then laid one hand on his cheek and turned his face towards hers. When she saw the look in his eyes, her heart skipped a beat. His pain was her pain. ‘Oh Colin!’ She kissed him then laid her cheek against his. ‘She’s all right, and look, I’ve made her a new dress.’