Coronation Wives (49 page)

The driver blinked himself awake and glanced behind him. The conductor was sprawled across a seat, mouth open and eyes shut. Lucky sod!

It was no more than a moment, no more than a glance. A figure, blurred by rain and drowsy eyes, danced into the road. The driver shouted and stood on the brakes. There was a bump, a screeching of tyres as the bus crossed the road and crashed into the front garden of a house.

Later, he sat with his head in his hands and cried.

‘It happened so fast,’ he wailed once the ambulance had arrived, the crowd had gathered, and the police were asking questions.

The conductor said nothing because he’d seen nothing. ‘It was raining and dark,’ he said, but did not mention the fact that he’d fallen asleep.

‘We went into a skid,’ the driver went on, resigned to the fact that there were no witnesses, no one to corroborate that he had, for the most part, kept his eyes on the road.

The police asked him if he knew he’d hit someone.

He hung his head, sighed and nodded sadly. ‘She was dancing,’ he said. ‘Or at least that was the way it seemed.’

Ethel Burbage was buried at eleven o’clock in the morning on a bitterly cold day in mid December at Arnos Vale Cemetery, a windswept slope falling from the steep Victorian streets of Totterdown to the Bath Road. Sweeping from Bath Road to Barton Hill were streets of grim back-to-backs and jumbled warehouses, the slag heaps of Barton Hill and the mean streets of Redfield. Beyond that were the green slopes of Purdown, where the great gun, ‘Purdown Percy’, had thundered away at enemy fighters in the dark days of the Blitz.

The flat, lower end of the cemetery, adjacent to the Bath Road, was crowded with the more magnificent edifices of
Victorian gentry including one of an Indian prince, with elephants at each corner supporting a domed temple between them.

Ethel Burbage’s last resting place was high on the hill. Once the coffin had been lowered into the ground, the mourners hugged coat collars to chilled cheeks, and shoved hands, already gloved in kid or wool, into pockets. Mufflers were tightened and hats pulled firmly down onto heads as they walked gingerly down the cinder path that wound between lopsided tombstones of once remembered people, their epitaphs eaten away by time, weather and luxuriant plant life.

Edna’s father lingered at the grave, the hem of his overcoat tugged to one side by the icy wind. Edna watched him, not quite believing that he could truly have loved her mother. She hadn’t been lovable.

Janet clasped Edna’s hand as she passed and offered her commiserations.

Edna sighed. ‘Trust my mother to die at this time of year when everyone’s looking forward to having fun. Isn’t that just typical?’

Janet squeezed her arm. ‘Never mind. Where would you be without her? And where would I be without my mother?’

Edna looked at her askance.

Janet saw the look and went on. ‘You might not have married Colin if she hadn’t pushed you. And you might not have had three lovely children.’

Edna’s attention returned to her father. ‘Do you know, I think he actually loved her. Isn’t that amazing?’

Now it was Janet’s turn to look askance. She tried to read Edna’s expression, fancied it was hard, but the wind chose that moment to blow Edna’s hair across her face. By the time she had tucked it firmly behind her ear, the bitterness Janet thought she had seen was gone.

Wiping his eyes, then blowing his nose, Cyril Burbage left the graveside. Edna offered him her arm. He needed her support more than she needed his.

There was space to be thoughtful. Perhaps it was the weather, or perhaps it was because there was little to be said about Ethel Burbage – without talking ill of the dead – but silence reigned as they wound their way back to the arched gateway and beyond to the main road and the funeral cars.

Edna looked small, like a puny adolescent rather than a grown woman with three children. She also looked tired. And so would I, thought Janet, and wondered how the devil she would have coped with a disabled man, a difficult mother and, now, a very sick child. Tragedy, like a lot of things, went in threes.

Charlotte eased along beside her and said, ‘At least it’s one less burden for Edna to cope with. We can at least be thankful for that.’

Edna joined Colin and his parents. Polly joined Janet and Charlotte.

‘I was saying that Ethel’s death is a blessing in disguise bearing in mind Edna’s other problems.’

Polly looked at her accusingly. ‘Edna ain’t been coping with ’er. I ’ave! And I’ll tell you somefin’ now, if Edna don’t sort herself out she’s going to drive poor Colin to suicide! Or at least to drink!’

Janet felt no compulsion to tell anyone about Colin getting drunk and crying. The world might not understand, she thought, as she eyed the cold sky and the straggly trees as if they were the most beautiful things in her world.

A figure appeared by the cemetery gate. Polly immediately lost interest in either Janet or the funeral. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said breathlessly, then ran off to where a broad-set man in a dark overcoat and trilby stood smoking a large cigar.

Charlotte leaned towards Janet. ‘That’s him! The man involved with the refugees!’

But with others around, Janet sensed that her mother would change the subject.

Charlotte buried her face in the fox fur that was draped around the shoulders of her smart black coat. ‘It would be nice if Susan was home for Christmas.’

Janet shook her head. ‘That won’t be possible, Mother. Easter perhaps, but certainly not Christmas.’

Her father, who looked pinched, cold and too slight for the size of his best black overcoat, nodded. ‘You’re probably right, and you are the one there on the ground so to speak. You should know.’

Janet stared at him. Suddenly she felt warm and eminently self-satisfied. An idea was beginning to form in her mind. Up to now it had been lingering, like an actor waiting on the sidelines for the right part to present itself. Her father’s comment was the prompt she’d been waiting for.

Ivan was standing at the cemetery gates. It had been his choice to stay slightly apart from family and friends. She smiled at him and he smiled back, though kept his distance.

‘You look like the cat who’s got the cream,’ said Dorothea who had chosen to wear grey rather than black to the funeral.

‘You could say that,’ said Janet.

Presuming Janet was referring to Ivan, Dorothea giggled before sloping off with Geoffrey. Henry had disappeared completely from the scene, rumoured to have run away with a woman twice his age.

It would not have been prudent to explain her plan to Dorothea; that would be like broadcasting it worldwide on
Family Favourites
and she didn’t want anyone to know until she had laid the foundations. But she needed to tell someone she could trust, though not Edna. She had quite enough to
contend with at present. That left Ivan. Strange, she thought, that at one time she would not speak to him, and now he was the only person worth telling until her plan became reality.

Snow fell early that year. Like thick icing it sat on the corrugated roofs of the single-storey hospital buildings. Flakes beat gently against the glass windowed corridors that ran between each prefabricated unit, drifted into corners and draped like ragged nets across ward windows.

Janet’s office was not the warmest of places. Rubbing her arms helped keep the circulation going and wearing two sweaters and a cardigan kept the draughts out. The radiator, a cast iron monster that sounded as though it suffered from chronic indigestion, still rarely rose above warm. Hot drinks helped and, as the wind rattled the windows, now was as good a time as any for another brew, she decided.

She picked up the kettle, a small, squat thing with a bent spout, and gave it a shake. No water. She went to the small kitchen just along the corridor. On her return she saw Edna and Colin coming out of Jonathan’s office. They looked down. An apologetic Jonathan stood in the doorway.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but Christmas is out of the question.’

Scrooge in
A Christmas Carol
immediately sprang to mind, but Jonathan wasn’t really being mean.

‘Edna! Colin! Care for a cup of tea?’ She held up the kettle.

‘Ah! Janet!’ Jonathan looked relieved. He spread his arms seeming to usher them towards her.

Edna looked hesitant. Colin looked morose at first, then seemed to brighten. ‘Why not? Come on, love,’ he said, his arm curving around her, dropping away as she shrugged him off.

Janet took them into her office, lit the Primus, then found them chairs.

Edna carefully folded her coat over her knees, then settled her handbag onto her lap. Colin gripped the back of the chair as he lowered himself onto it, his legs stuck out stiffly in front of him. There was little enough room in the office. Their presence, especially Colin’s legs, made it seem smaller.

Their disappointment was obvious. She felt obliged to lift their spirits. ‘So you’ve been having a chat with Jonathan?’

Edna’s gaze was fixed on the floor. Colin was trying to look jolly, glancing at Janet as he spoke, but glanced nervously back at Edna as if looking for confirmation.

She sensed the tension between them. Married people did not always get on – heavens, her own parents were proof of that! But Edna and Colin? She wouldn’t have believed it. They’d always seemed so happy together.

‘It appears our Susan won’t be home for Christmas,’ said Colin in too blithe a manner to believe. ‘But never mind. We’ll get over it, won’t we, love?’ He patted Edna’s hand.

Edna was like a statue, unblinking and silent. Janet felt so sorry for Colin, but managed to maintain her cheerfulness.

‘I heard Easter mentioned,’ she said as she poured the hot water into the pot. In her heart of hearts she knew what the problem was. Addressing it would be the hardest thing of all.

Colin nodded. ‘Yes. We’ll see if we can get her an Easter egg. There ain’t that much chocolate around yet, but no matter the price, we’ll get her one, won’t we, love?’

Listening to the pain in his voice, it was hard to concentrate on pouring milk and spooning sugar into a cup.

She passed the first cup to him, then took the second cup to Edna and dropped to her knees in front of her. If Colin couldn’t put into words what Jonathan had so obviously just told them, then it was left to her.

Best, she decided, to be direct.

‘Doctor Driver’s told you that she’ll have to wear a calliper on her right leg, hasn’t he?’

Colin seemed to melt into his chair.

Edna raised her gaze from the floor and looked into Janet’s face. There were dark circles beneath her eyes. Janet guessed she hadn’t slept properly for months.

She nodded. ‘Yes.’ Her voice was small and soft, like that of a child before falling asleep.

Colin chose that moment to get to his feet. ‘I need the um …’

Janet gave him directions to the gents’ lavatories, wondered whether that was really what he wanted or whether he wanted to cry again. Funny, she thought, a man can cry in front of another man, but not in front of a woman. Perhaps he felt he needed to be strong for Edna.

As the door closed behind him, Edna let out a great, long sigh, almost of relief. ‘It’s not easy to accept,’ she said, her brown eyes flickering as though she’d just awoken. Her shoulders seemed less tense, her whole demeanour less introspective than when Colin had been in the room.

‘She might not need to wear it for ever. Physiotherapy is being used a lot more now than it used to be,’ Janet offered.

Edna’s brow furrowed deeply. ‘I know.’ She gripped the cup tightly and clamped her mouth shut, almost as if she were trying to keep something in. ‘I can’t help feeling the way I do. I can’t help it that Colin annoys me nowadays. It’s just that …’ She paused and Janet saw the moistness in her eyes as she struggled for the right words. ‘I sometimes think that God must be dead. If little children are so important to him, why do they
have to suffer? Why do they have to be alone, especially at this time of year? Children should be with their mothers at Christmas.’

Janet felt a tightening in her chest. She could imagine how Edna was feeling, a mix of despair and anger that just had to come out. ‘Susan won’t be alone – I promise you.’ She noticed that Edna had said mothers, had not mentioned fathers, or parents.

What Edna said next surprised her. ‘You’ve got a good bedside manner, Janet. You should have been a doctor.’

Janet smiled wryly. ‘Now there’s a thought. Doctor Janet. Tell me all your woes and I’ll see if I’ve got the magic pill that will put them right.’ She said it laughingly, not meaning for it to be taken seriously, at least, not yet.

‘Do you remember me telling you about Sherman?’ said Edna. Her look was very intense.

Janet nodded. ‘Yes.’

Edna unclipped the crossover clasp of her pigskin handbag. ‘I’ve received a letter.’

The paper was of poor quality, the sort processed from every bit of cardboard a post-war Europe could salvage.

Edna unfolded it as though it were the most precious piece of material ever to cross her palm. ‘It’s from my son,’ she said. Her voice caught on the words as she said it, like stifled sobs.

She passed it to Janet, who vaguely noted an address in Germany. The writing, though well formed, had a certain immaturity about it.

Dear Mrs Smith,

Mr Schumann has told me all about you. I understand that you are my mother but regret that I cannot come to you yet. You see, my grandmother in Brazil is dying. I feel I must remain part of her family until she is gone so I cannot come to you until then. I have
spoken to Mr Schumann about it until he says I can stay here at the village as long as I want. You cannot be my mother yet. Mr Schumann said I should tell you about this.

Love,

Carlos Di Mambro.

Did she read it twice or was it three times? She couldn’t tell. The letter was so moving. At last Edna took it from her hand.

‘Mr Schumann says he is a very serious child,’ said Edna.