Coronation Wives (29 page)

‘No. I did not.’

Although shocked to the core to think the lovely Susan was suffering from one of the worst diseases of the twentieth century, Janet had kept her head. Jonathan might not have been willing to take her on if he had known that she was taking the job for Susan’s sake. Best, she had thought, to allow him to live in hope.

They stopped by the door to the porter’s lodge where the files Janet was carrying would be left prior to burning in the furnaces that heated the hospital and were situated deep beneath St Michael’s Hill.

Dorothea glanced around, saw the corridor was empty and lit up a cigarette. ‘So why the big fuss about Susan? She’s not your kid, darling. Are you sure you’re not going sweet on the good doctor?’

Janet pushed open the door of the porter’s lodge. ‘No!’

She didn’t want to explain the reasons why she’d changed her mind. The truth was, it was hard admitting even to herself that she shouldered the blame for Susan’s illness. If only she hadn’t taken her to Clevedon. Swimming pools, Jonathan had
told her, were a suspected source of the dreadful disease. If only Susan hadn’t fallen into the water.

Back in Royal York Crescent, Charlotte was seated at her desk with the file on Edna’s firstborn child open in front of her. She was feeling both sad and exasperated. Susan’s tragic predicament had raised a number of questions. One of these was the letter relating to the child born Sherman Burbage and consequently brought up in Brazil and now orphaned in Germany. Charlotte sighed and stared at the ceiling. As if poor Edna didn’t have enough to contend with. The poor woman’s in no fit state to cope with another problem, she decided. All their efforts must be put into hoping that Susan got better before anything could be done about Edna’s eldest son.

‘Poor girl,’ she said and sighed audibly. Just at that moment the sound of the vacuum echoed along the landing. Polly had arrived. Now there was a woman with a carefree existence if ever there was. Trouble never seemed to call at her door, or if it did, they never heard anything about it.

Typically for late autumn, it was a misty night, the air a mix of chill and soot forewarning a foggy November.

Already peeved that she’d received no response to her second letter to Australia House, Polly was now hot under the collar because she’d sent Carol and her friend Sean up to the coke-house over two hours ago to get a hundredweight of coal for the fire. They still weren’t back and the fire had burned almost to ash. She gave it a jab with a brass-headed poker. Initially it glowed bright, but gradually faded.

‘That fire ain’t goin’ to last much longer. It’s goin’ to be flippin’ freezin’ in ’ere!’

Still grasping the poker, she opened the front door, peering beyond the scrappy lawn and privet hedges. Not that she could see much. The mist was turning to fog and Carol was nowhere to be seen.

‘It’ll be colder still if you don’t put the wood back in the bleeding ’ole,’ said Meg as she folded sheets and pillowcases into a pile on the dining table. Close by, deceptively hot, sat two old-fashioned flatirons recently heated from the open fire.

Polly slammed the door and grimaced. ‘One day I’ll get a proper iron.’

‘It is proper.’

‘One that plugs into the light socket and got a handle that don’t burn yer hand.’

Polly re-checked that the pennies she’d saved for the gas meter were still in her pocket. Her fingers touched the grimy coppers. No holes in this apron, thank God! Once the gas was gone they’d go into the meter, but until then the irons would be heated on the coal until all the ironing was done – as long as Carol got home before the fire went out.

Polly wrapped her cardigan closely around herself and went out into the kitchen to fill the kettle. Never mind the coal or the gas, she wasn’t going to deny herself a cup of tea. At least there was plenty of that in the cupboard. If Billy had been home on time she’d have gone down into Bedminster this afternoon and done her weekly shop. But Billy was not a creature of regular habits and she could always shop locally near the Broadway Picture House, but Griffiths might be lurking around and she didn’t want to bump into him.

Daydreaming as she waited for the kettle to boil, her gaze fixed on the scrawny sprouts she’d planted just in front of the chicken run. The war was long over, but everyone on the estate still bought fluffy little chicks in the spring to fatten up for Christmas. But Polly wasn’t seeing the sprouts, the squawking chickens or the condensation running down the windows, and she wasn’t seeing the rain outside. Instead she saw a long, sandy beach, white-capped waves riding a blue ocean and dappled sunlight on a white bungalow with something pink and pretty growing along its veranda.

Just as the kettle screeched and a white plume of steam rose from the spout, Meg called to her from the living room, her voice accompanied by a loud banging on the front door knocker.

‘Polly! Polly!’ She sounded worried.

Polly dashed into the living room.

‘It looks like the police, though what with this mist …’ Meg murmured. Her tone changed. ‘It’s not our Carol, is it?’

‘We won’t know that until we open the bloody door!’

As she turned the catch, the door was pushed open and she was slammed against the wall.

She managed to right herself enough to eye up the ugly brutes who had entered, definitely not police unless they’d taken to wearing loud, checked suits with soft, felt hats. ‘Who the bloody hell are you?’

‘Business acquaintances of your old man!’

Billy!

Rough hands and hard knuckles manhandled her back into the living room.

‘Get over there, you silly tart!’

One grabbed her shoulders and flung her against the dresser. Pastel blue cups rattled on their hooks; two saucers and a plate went crashing to the floor.

Meg was pushed against the table. The piled ironing toppled to the floor and one of the hot irons fell onto its side. The smell of singed cotton mingled with that of cheap cologne and ripe armpits.

Meg looked amazed. ‘I thought they were plain clothes policemen.’

The two men burst out laughing. ‘Coppers! Bloody ’ell, we don’t look that bloody stupid, do we? Bloody silly cow! Bloody silly mare!’

Polly fixed her gaze on the geezer who still held her shoulder so she could describe him to Billy. She didn’t know why she felt she should do that; it wasn’t as if he’d likely black their eyes or thump their nose. Billy was dishonest not violent. But she memorized him anyway. Sandy moustache, sandy hair, sandy eyebrows and eyes so pale they were only barely blue. Cheap suit, tan mac and dark green trilby. And obviously he
thought throwing in a few basic expletives aimed at them made him something of a comedian.

‘I thought they were plain clothes,’ Meg whined again as if repeating the comment would make everything right again.

‘Silly cow.’ The scrawny thug who held her looked at ‘Ginger’ for confirmation that he was doing OK.

Ginger grinned approvingly then hooked his fingers over the low neckline of Polly’s dress and pulled her closer to him. ‘So where’s yer old man?’

Never one to back down easily, Polly grappled with the thick fingers. ‘Get yer ’ands off this frock! It’s me best one.’

His face was close to hers and his breath smelled of something sour. His face was not his fortune. She noticed his lashes were almost silver. She’d seen them like that on pigs, when they were dead and hung up on hooks.

‘Now look ’ere,’ he said menacingly, and she held her breath against the mix of smells. ‘If you don’t tell me what I wants to know, that frock’ll be off yer back and so will yer vest. D’you know what I’m saying?’

Polly glared right back at him. ‘Do what you like! I’ve ’ad bigger and better than you, mate – and I ain’t referring to yer height or the size of your nose, you ginger toe rag!’

His pale skin turned bright pink. ‘Is that so!’ He pushed her with one hand and clawed at the neckline with the other.

Rip went her dress.

Polly screamed.

Ginger sneered.

‘Piss off!’ Up went her knee. Ginger bent almost double as it connected with his crotch, but damn him, he didn’t let go.

A nerve ticked beneath one of his glaring eyes. Polly gritted her teeth for what she knew would come.

‘You fucking cow!’

This time he was careful. Shoulders forward, pelvic area
held well back, he grabbed her wrists so she couldn’t move. His smell was overpowering.

Now it was Polly who sneered. ‘You’ll ’ave to do better than that.’ She aimed another kick at his crotch, but caught his shin.

He slapped her and it stung. But she wouldn’t be beaten. Standing as tall as she could until the backs of her knees felt they were splitting, she spat into his face.

‘You’re gonna regret that.’

Despite her stinging cheek, she laughed in his face. ‘Do what you like, you ginger git, but I’ll be spittin’ and fightin’ all the bloody way!’

She could see he believed her. Hopefully he would make the decision to call it a day and clear off. But the decision he made was not the one she wanted.

A nasty smile crept across his mouth like a slimy maggot. Polly’s heart leapt to her throat as ‘Ginger’ turned to his sidekick. ‘If that’s the way she wants it, Gordy, then that’s the way we’ll ’ave it. P’raps the old lady there can tell us where Billy is. Give ’er a ’and with that ironing, Gordy. Make sure the iron’s nice and hot, mind, or it won’t do a decent job.’

‘She don’t know anything!’

Sheer terror registered on Aunty Meg’s face and Polly wished she were ten times bigger and stronger.

She winced as Ginger grasped a handful of her hair, tilting her head back so her face was level with his.

‘Then you’d better tell me what I wants to know, Blondie, ’adn’t you?’ he growled.

‘I don’t know where he is, you stupid spastic!’

‘Don’t call me names, you poxy cow!’

‘Don’t call me poxy! And open your bloody ears. I don’t know where he is! I don’t know, you stupid bleeders! Why won’t you listen to me?’

Meg’s eyes were round with fear and her bottom lip quivered as the thug held the iron close to her arm.

Polly watched helplessly. ‘Let her go, you swine! I don’t know where Billy is I tell ya, I don’t bloody know!’

A sudden movement beyond the window caught her eye, too quick to ascertain who or what it was. Perhaps the neighbours had heard and were coming to the rescue.

Ginger’s nose was near enough to bite and she would if she could. It was so close, but then the hot iron was close to Meg’s arm.

‘So where is he?’ Ginger asked again, his breath damply unpleasant on her face.

Where could he be? She hadn’t a clue, but in the circumstances and bearing in mind that these two were employed for being bullies not brains, it was OK to lie.

‘He’s out doing a job for a friend of mine in Clifton. A magistrate actually. She’s married to a doctor.’

Charlotte had mentioned something about being asked to ‘sit on the bench’ as she called it, but had turned it down because she didn’t have the time. Polly had merely said it to impress.

Ginger frowned. ‘It’ll be the worse for him – and for you – if he’s grassing on us.’

‘Just moving some furniture for her,’ Polly said quickly, thinking on her feet as she realized she’d made a fatal mistake by mentioning the law.

‘So when’s he home?’

‘Six,’ she blurted. ‘He should be home by six.’ It was a guess, but would have to do.

Ginger studied her expression for any sign that she might be lying – not that he was likely to be that observant judging by his vocabulary. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Now I wonder if yer tellin’ the truth. Or are you just trying to save the old lady there?’

‘It’s the truth, you stupid sod!’

Polly’s gaze strayed to the door. If only Billy would burst in with a couple of nifty neighbours at his side.

Ginger looked as pleased as a tomcat that’s just given the mouse its last try for freedom. He said to Gordy, ‘Give the old lady one to remember us by just so Blondie ’ere knows we mean business.’

‘No!’ Polly twisted against Ginger’s grip.

Meg wailed loudly as the iron was raised.

Polly screamed all the very worse expletives she could think of and prayed like she’d never prayed before – except for the time when she’d given God one last chance. She’d prayed for Gavin, Carol’s father, to be on the troop train at Temple Meads Station. He’d let her down. This time He didn’t.

A flash of navy gymslip flew into the room. Childish arms held high a heavy willow hockey stick and a youthful voice shouted in anger, ‘Get out, you bleeding sod!’

Gordy yelled out in anguish as the hooked end of the stick whacked into the backs of his knees. The fiat iron went crashing and so did Gordy, as he fell forwards among the folded bedding and neatly ironed underwear.

‘Leave my aunty alone, you bleeder!’ shouted Carol as she rained a hail of hefty blows onto the head and back of the prostrate Gordy.

Polly took the opportunity to bring her knee up into Ginger’s groin with twice the force of the first encounter. Ginger doubled up, his eyes almost bursting out of his head.

Gordy was groaning, flat out on the floor, his head bleeding. Carol turned her attention to the doubled-up Ginger. ‘Get away from my mum!’

Ginger’s hat flew across the room and Polly winced as wooden stick crunched bony head. Ginger fell to his knees.

Gordy started to rise. Meg eyed him casually, but there was
vengeance in her eyes. With one mighty blow she brought the iron down on the nape of his neck.

‘Burn me would you, you bloody swine?’

A smell reminiscent of burnt pork filled the room. Gordy yelled like a scalded cat and made for the door. Polly stepped in his way, Carol, snarling and still armed with the hockey stick, stood beside her.

‘Not so fast, Gordy!’ Polly pointed at the supine form lying between the back of the settee and the dinner table. ‘Take that ginger git with you. He makes the room look untidy.’

Ginger kept his hands over his crotch as Gordy heaved him to his feet. Polly opened the door for them and kicked each one up the backside as they negotiated the doorstep.

‘And good bloody riddance,’ she shouted.