East End Jubilee
Authors: Carol Rivers
JUBILEE
Carol Rivers, whose family comes from the Isle of Dogs, East London, now lives in Dorset. Visit www.carolrivers.com for more information.
Also by Carol Rivers
Lizzie of Langley Street
Connie of Kettle Street
Bella of Bow Street
Lily of Love Lane
Eve of the Isle
East End Angel
In the Bleak Midwinter
First published in Great Britain
under the title
Rose of Ruby Street
by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2005
A CBS COMPANY
This paperback edition first published, 2012
Copyright © Carol Rivers, 2005
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Carol Rivers to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,
1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor
222 Gray’s Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Dehli
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Paperback B ISBN: 978-0-85720-864-4
E Book ISBN: 978-0-85720-865-1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by M Rules
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
For my family
My sincerest thanks go to my agent, Dorothy Lumley, for her help and encouragement and to Kate Lyall Grant and all the team at Simon & Schuster, for giving me a chance.
Chapter One
Rose Weaver held her breath as she took in the scene before her. It was a once in a lifetime moment and she intended to savour every second. A room barely big enough to squeeze
a dining table and couch into it now held at least twenty people. The focus of attention was the television in the corner, surrounded by a halo of red, white and blue bunting and handmade paper
chains.
Rose sat on the moquette couch at the back of the room. Rows of wooden chairs, footstools and pouffes were spread out in front of her and every seat was taken. The heavy curtains were drawn
together, shutting in the dark and cigarette smoke, lending a theatrical air to the proceedings.
Rose felt as though the whole country was waiting. Her heart started to beat a tattoo inside her chest as she listened to Sylvia Peters’ soft, cut glass accent flowing from the miracle
invention of television. The women perched on the edge of their chairs and even the men, for once, didn’t look bored. The children snuggled between legs, feet and knees, and stared at the
flickering screen.
The day had finally arrived, Tuesday 2nd June, 1953. Queen Elizabeth II’s Coronation.
‘Your other half coming?’
Rose turned to find Olga Parker sitting on the couch beside her. Olga was their host and owner of the new television.
‘Oh yes, he’ll be here.’
‘Let’s hope before nightfall.’
‘He’ll show up. He always does.’
All the same, Rose wished Eddie would make an exception from his normal behaviour and turn up on time. Olga was pleasant enough and so was her husband, Leslie, who was a clerk in the city,
although no one ever saw much of him. They were different somehow. The childless couple never seemed hard-up, not like the rest of Ruby Street.
A pair of shrewd eyes studied her. ‘That’s a nice dress.’
‘Thanks.’ The dress was as old as the hills, the little pale flowers fading over the years. But Rose liked the tiny waist and full skirt and the way Eddie could fit his two hands
round her middle.
‘Your hair could do with some attention, though.’
Self-consciously Rose drew her hand through the heavy brown locks that fell across her face. The same chestnut brown as her eyes, her thick and lustrous mane tumbled naturally to her
shoulders.
‘Doesn’t Eddie ever treat you to a hairdo?’
Rose almost laughed at the thought of the hairdresser. Eddie provided her with enough housekeeping to cover a family of four’s expenses, but there wasn’t much left over. He always
maintained that one day their boat would come in and Rose believed him. She could only guess it had a long way to sail.
‘I like doing my own hair,’ Rose shrugged. ‘The hairdresser always wants to cut it.’
‘Every woman needs a little luxury now and then,’ Olga said, smoothing down her elegant two-piece suit. ‘Your husband should spoil you once in a while.’
‘He does,’ Rose said too quickly. ‘Eddie’s very thoughtful like that.’
Olga’s voice lowered. ‘I’m not picking holes, Rose. I mean, your Eddie is a good man.’
‘I know that.’
‘How is business?’
‘Fine.’ Rose feigned knowledge. The truth was she didn’t know the ins and outs of Eddie’s trading business and didn’t want to know. Olga didn’t realize it,
but the television was a sore subject. She’d rowed with Eddie over selling it to the Parkers, pleading with him not to get involved with them as friendly as they appeared to be. The Parkers
had only moved into Ruby Street two years ago; no one really knew anything about them.
‘The telly’s an exception to me rule,’ Eddie had promised her last week. ‘And anyway, what was I to do? Leslie Parker asked me straight out for it.’
‘I still don’t like the idea,’ she’d persisted, but Eddie wouldn’t listen. ‘Where’s the harm in it?’ he’d asked innocently. ‘After
all, it’s only a telly.’
‘Yes, and everyone will want one when the news leaks out. But people round here can’t afford new televisions. You’ll make enemies that way.’
‘Oh, come on, Rose,’ he’d laughed, trying to cuddle her.
‘Eddie, I mean it. You promised me you’d never sell to our neighbours. I want us to keep on the right side of everyone.’ Not that she didn’t trust her husband but
she’d learned to distance herself from his business deals. And Eddie was happy enough to oblige, it seemed. Until last week.
‘Yeah, I know,’ he’d agreed, cuddling her all the more and rubbing his jaw against her cheek. ‘But this is the one and only time, sweetheart. And I’ll tell Olga to
keep shtum. No one will ever know.’
Rose had hesitated just for a moment.
‘Come on then, give us a kiss.’
And like it or not, she’d lost the argument over the television.
Rose, like most of the women born and bred in the East End, prided herself on having a nose for trouble. Probably, she had once remarked to Eddie, because she’d been married to it for the
last eight years. She loved her husband, but she’d been very annoyed when Leslie Parker had persuaded him to break the golden rule.
‘It is a good model, don’t you think?’ Olga’s voice brought Rose back with a jump. ‘Leslie bought it for me as a surprise.’
Rose looked round. Had anyone heard? She tried to draw Olga’s attention back to the pictures flashing up on the screen. ‘Look, there’s the coach coming out of Buckingham
Palace.’
‘Struth! A moving mountain of gold!’ Cissy Hall gasped. ‘Poor bleeding horses’ll get a hernia.’
‘Just one of them big knobs on the roof would do me,’ Fanny Grover wheezed lustily.
‘Yeah, we know that,’ Cissy shouted lewdly. ‘But what about the gold?’
The room went into uproar, but the diversion didn’t last long. When the noise and vulgar comments had died down, Olga went over to the television.
‘Quiet, everyone!’ She clapped her hands and achieved silence, placing her hand self-importantly on the top of the Bakelite box. Rose could see the smirks, but Olga seemed oblivious.
Most of the women in the room were all hardworking cockneys and to them Olga could have been from another planet. She was childless, of Polish extraction and because Leslie had a good job, she
didn’t need to work. Her husband seemed rather cold and aloof and didn’t mix socially, appearing to work long hours in the city.
A rueful smile touched Rose’s lips as she thought of Eddie. He worked long hours too, but personal warmth wasn’t lacking in the Weaver household. Eight years of marriage had provided
her with the best years of her life. Eddie was a passionate, romantic man, who rarely hid his emotions, and they had learned early in their marriage that her worrying and his business didn’t
mix. The compromise they’d made had worked a treat. Rose didn’t ask any questions and Eddie kept his promise not to trade amongst their friends and neighbours.
Since many of the East End women had boozers for husbands she regarded herself as lucky she wasn’t one of them. As far as she was concerned, Eddie was one in a million.
Rose wondered where her two daughters had got to. Five-year-old Marlene and seven-year-old Donnie had promised to be over as soon as they were dressed. They wanted to show off the red and blue
gingham dresses Rose had made for Coronation Day. But time was getting on. The crowning started at eleven.
As the oohs and ahs filled the room, the camera panned inside the coach. The audience gasped. ‘Ain’t she pretty!’ Fanny exclaimed breathlessly.
‘Even you would be pretty if you had millions sitting on yer titfer,’ Fred Dixon laughed raucously.
‘We should be respectful.’ Olga drew herself up. ‘She’s your new Queen.’
‘And yours,’ Fred retaliated. ‘That’s if you count yourself as British.’
‘As British as you, Mr Dixon.’ Olga tightened her lips. Rose knew that Olga’s sore point was her Polish nationality. She’d fled Poland in the war and even though
she’d done wonders with her accent, she was still a foreigner to the women of the Isle of Dogs.
‘Look at all them people. Just like ants,’ Cissy gasped, shaking her head. ‘They’ve been queuing all night, so I heard on the wireless. Some of the mad buggers even slept
rough.’
Fanny agreed. ‘I ain’t never seen the Mall so full, not even when the King died.’
‘And it’s raining too.’
‘Always is, in England.’
‘No, it ain’t. It was lovely last week.’
Rose chuckled as the arguing continued, mostly good-natured banter, but her attention was soon riveted as the gold-encrusted coach, pulled by the team of magnificent white horses, wove
ceremoniously through the streets of London.
Rose was in a world of her own. This was the closest she would ever be to a royal princess. Quietly adjusting her position on the couch, she could see the smallest details right down to the way
the Princess’s dark hair fell softly round her beautiful face. Had this young woman any worries at all, Rose wondered? Despite all her wealth, was she afraid of becoming a queen?
‘Hello, Mum.’ A pair of lips brushed Rose’s cheek. Her daughter was standing there.
‘Donnie! I was beginning to get worried.’
‘I was doing meself up. Look.’ She held out the skirt of her blue and white check gingham dress, all Rose’s handiwork. ‘I put on my best white socks too.’
‘You look smashing, pet.’
‘And look at me!’ Marlene was wearing a red and white gingham identical to her sister’s except for the colour, a vivid cherry selected by Marlene herself. Rose had been
reluctant to buy the material; she would have preferred a green check to complement Marlene’s bright auburn hair. But today both her daughters with their beautiful big brown eyes and smiling
faces could have worn sackcloth, Rose thought ruefully, and would have done it justice. She was so proud of them.
