by Lizzie Lane
‘I’ll see you later, darling. Hope you feel better.’ On the other side of the door Janet looked at herself in the mirror and thought of her conversation with Edna. A bastard child! She could hardly believe it. Funny how you could look at people and assume from their present demeanour, their unassuming ordinariness, that they’d never done anything outrageous in their life. Yet Edna had got pregnant by a man who wasn’t her husband. She had got on with her life – just as she would have to.
Just look at it, thought Geoffrey as the train pulled into Temple Meads Station. He scowled contemptuously at the stupid little triangular flags fluttering above the platform. If he’d had his way he would not have come home to join in the celebrations for something he didn’t believe in. But he could hardly tell his parents that university had caused his views on things to change. Their world – both past and present – was very different to the world he lived in.
As he turned the handle on the carriage door, he saw his father waving to him from where he stood at the side of the newspaper stand. Just before pushing the door open he remembered the badge gleaming a dull red in the lapel of his coat. In all probability his parents would not have a clue what it actually represented. But he couldn’t take that chance. He unpinned it from the front of the lapel and re-pinned it on the reverse, then patted it flat. No one would know he was wearing it.
He adopted a happy smile and stepped out onto the platform. Hopefully these few weeks would pass with as little unpleasantness as possible. After that he would rejoin his friends, people with enquiring minds who did not accept that the old ways were still the best.
Dusk in Camborne Road found Polly and her neighbours full of food and slightly tipsy.
A beaming policeman stood on the corner against a privet hedge that someone had tried to clip into the shape of a crown, but which actually resembled a doughnut. The policeman swayed from the knees up and looked as though he might tip over. He was tall and thin but his heavy boots anchored him to the spot.
Music blared out from a wind-up record player that sat on a fold-up card table next to a lamppost. Rows of trestle tables groaned with Spam sandwiches, cheese rolls, jellies, blancmanges and thick slices of homemade fruitcake that stuck to the teeth and lay heavy in the belly.
‘You’d think ’e’ed join the party,’ said Aunty Meg, eyeing the young policeman. There again, ’e don’t look old enough to be out.’
Polly was unconvinced. ‘He’s a copper. He’s always on duty.’
Being married to Billy had taught Polly a lot. Many’s the time he’d been out selling nylons, chocolate or clockwork toys from Hong Kong on the wooden cart he pulled along behind his bicycle. Just as he was getting an interested little crowd around him, the local bobby would appear.
‘Round the corner,’ the copper would say. And Billy would go round the corner, knowing what the next question would be.
‘Got a licence?’
Of course he didn’t. So a ten shilling note would change hands – more if he wasn’t selling anything but doing a book on Ascot or the Gold Cup. Street bookies were becoming an endangered species.
Aunty Meg slipped a crochet needle out from the pocket of her manly jacket and used it to scratch at her hair, which she wore in ‘earphones’ – plaits coiled around her ears, dated now but Meg reckoned she was too old to change. ‘Where’s Billy?’ she asked Polly.
‘As far away from ’ere as possible.’ She grimaced. ‘I hope.’
Unfortunately that wasn’t the case. At that very moment Billy entered the opposite end of the street in the borrowed black van.
Polly swallowed hard. Pound to a penny there would still be boxes in the back that hadn’t so much fallen off the back of a lorry as flown swiftly from one vehicle to the other.
Polly glanced at the young constable hoping to God he’d seen nothing. Luckily he was eyeing up a threesome of giggling girls so hadn’t noticed Billy’s arrival. The girls were all around seventeen years old, giddy with the minimum of ruby wine and dry cider and showing a good six inches of bare thigh above steel-clasped stocking tops as they kicked their legs into the air.
Reasoning the copper was a soft touch and easily distracted, the Pearly King cap was flung to one side, the tie was loosened and shirt buttons were undone enough to show her cleavage. She checked the effect. Not bad, considering you’re no spring chicken.
Swinging her hips and thrusting her bust forward, she swept to the side of the unsuspecting policeman and rested her hand on his shoulder. A Mae West type of voice would do the job.
‘Joining the party, honey?’
He looked terrified. My God but Mae West had a lot to answer for, thought Polly and stifled a giggle. The policeman’s helmet wobbled as he swallowed. ‘No, madam! I’m on duty.’
A faint blush crept over his face. Polly was pleased because it meant she wasn’t past it by a long chalk. She couldn’t resist laying it on a bit thicker.
‘Oh come on, darling. Nice young man like you. Wouldn’t hurt to join in the fun, would it?’ She pressed her body against his chest, one leg looped provocatively around his.
Looking terrified, he took a backward step, Polly still clinging on. ‘I’ve got a beat to pound,’ he said, his voice trembling. Polly sniffed. He smelt of bubble-gum, a smell she associated with children and young people – but he was young! God, she thought, I must be gettin’ bloody old!
He did his best to disentangle himself.
‘I can think of better things to do,’ Polly went on, provocatively sliding her hands over her breasts then leaning against his arm, looking doe-eyed up into his face. ‘Want to help me do ’em?’ He looked petrified.
Polly kept going. ‘Aw, come on, sweetheart. I know you’re fancying a bit really. I saw you looking at them young pieces kicking their legs in the air and showing their knickers. They’ll do you no good, darlin’. Too young. No experience. But me … well … I knows what I’m doin’, don’t I?’
Perhaps stiff with passion before her arrival, he now stiffened with duty. ‘Now go along, madam. There’s a good girl.’ His voice creaked with fear rather than authority.
Polly pretended to take umbrage. ‘Good girl! You cheeky bugger! I’m a married woman and you with no more than bum fluff on yer face!’
He edged away, walking backwards then turning to attain more speed in the direction of the main road. Polly would have said good riddance, the job was done. But he’d riled her.
She made as if to run after him. ‘Aw, come on! Don’t leave a girl wanting!’
His strides quickened and turned into a run, his boots clomping like an elephant all along the pavement. Once he was on the main road he broke into an ungainly canter. Polly stopped and bent double with laughter. She’d had a few good laughs today and doing for a bobby had been the greatest one.
Meg was the first to greet her when she got back.
‘Poor bugger! He’ll probably pee the bed tonight with you going after ’im like that.’
Polly just grinned. Tonight was turning out to be more fun than she’d expected. She almost felt young again. She told Billy what she’d just done but was careful to button her shirt up first.
Billy cocked his head to one side. ‘Poor bloke. You must ’ave frightened ’im to death running after ’im like that and looking the way you do.’
Polly punched his arm. ‘Cheeky sod. I understood gentlemen prefer blondes.’
Billy grinned and swiped his finger along her upper lip. ‘They do but not if they got moustaches!’
Polly’s mouth dropped open. She’d forgotten the blacked on moustache. But she laughed and thumped him in the chest. Billy gasped and bent double. ‘Blimey! Ever thought about doin’ a round with Joe Louis?’
She’d have given him another whack, but someone passed him a bottle of brown ale and there was no sense in spilling good beer.
‘I could do with that,’ he said after a good swig. ‘My chest’s as dry as Wes’on sands.’
‘Make the most of it. The beer’s
nearly gone. You should have come earlier.’ Polly was annoyed. She eyed him suspiciously.
‘I’ve been working. Did you win the best party prize?’
Polly shook her head and eyed contemptuously the streets of red-brick houses. ‘Mansfield Street down in Bemmie won it.’ She spat the slang word for Bedminster, an area of Victorian back to backs and tobacco factories. The same tone continued. ‘Still, what do you expect living somewhere like this?’ Another minute alone with him and she’d have mentioned Australia, but Billy’s mind was firmly fixed on business.
‘Oi!’ Billy shouted to the assembled neighbours and waved his arms. ‘Never mind not winning. I’ve got prizes for everyone.’
A loud cheer went up. A host of adults and children followed him to the back of the van. Geraldine Harvey brought up the rear dragging her callipered leg behind her.
Aunty Meg nudged Polly. ‘D’you think you should let our Carol play with ’er? It might still be catching.’
Both women watched the nine-year-old Geraldine hop as quickly as she could behind the rest of the bunch, her eyes as bright with excitement as any child there.
‘You could be right. I’ve stopped ’er going swimming, but you never know, do you? I’ll ask David Hennessey-White, the doctor I know up in Clifton. I’ll be having tea with ’is wife next week.’ The last two sentences were spoken loudly.
She winced as Meg elbowed her ribs. ‘Show off!’
Polly looked smug and unrepentant. She liked her neighbours to know that she was on first name terms with a doctor and counted his wife as one of her friends. It gave her status – which was more than Billy did. There were times when she almost regretted the path she’d taken. Billy was well-known for trading in items that were scarce and not so scarce – at knock down prices. He was always promising her the earth, but so far it hadn’t arrived on the doorstep.
Still dressed in her Bo-Peep party frock of red, white and blue, torn and dirty now, Carol pushed her way to the front. ‘Dad! Me first!’
A beaming Billy spread his arms wide. ‘As always, my princess!’
Aunty Meg leaned close and spoke low out the side of her mouth. ‘One of these days that husband of yours is going to touch.’
Polly shrugged. ‘What can I do?’
She knew what Meg meant. Billy was getting involved with bigger fish, the blokes that ran the street bookies and a few other professions that were far from being legal.
‘God save the Queen, and she saved these for you lot,’ Billy shouted, bringing out a box from the rear of the van. ‘Now don’t push, there’s plenty for all.’
Bars of chocolate were passed into eagerly stretched out hands.
Once the crowd had diminished and were happily munching on nicked Five Boys, Turkish Delight and Fry’s Chocolate Cream, Polly grabbed Billy’s arm. ‘All right, Wee Willie Winkie, where did you get it? And don’t tell me it really was the Queen. She’s probably gone to bed with a headache after wearing that crown all day.’
Billy’s eyes twinkled and a sly grin lifted one side of his mouth making it seem crooked. ‘I just knew someone who wanted to get rid of it. Had too many and wanted them with none to have some. A bit like Robin Hood – you know?’
Polly folded her arms and eyed him accusingly. ‘Oh yes, Billy Hills! I knows all right! And one of these days the Sheriff of Nottingham is going to come into Sherwood Forest, take you away and lock you in his dungeon!’
Chapter Seven
By the time Janet got out of the bath her skin was codfish white and wrinkled, but she felt cleaner than she had for ages. Dorothea rang just afterwards.
‘And where have you been hiding? Haven’t found a lover that I didn’t get to first, have you?’
Janet gritted her teeth. ‘I haven’t got a boyfriend.’
‘I didn’t say a boyfriend, darling. I said a lover. The former is a regular indulgence, the latter is a more infrequent and deliciously wicked liaison.’
Janet wondered just how much Henry knew about Dorothea’s morals. Did he really think he was the only man in her life?
‘My mother would say you’re a vamp.’
Taking it as a compliment, Dorothea laughed. ‘The boys say I’m a red hot momma!’
There are other words to describe you, thought Janet, but held her tongue. Instead she said, ‘I’ll see you tonight at about eight?’
‘The ball, the ball! The Coronation Ball!’ Dorothea trilled. ‘You can tell me then all that’s been happening. I’ve hardly seen you at work. We have so little time to chat when you keep having days off. What’s wrong with you?’
‘A very bad headache, perhaps a touch of flu. It comes and goes. So I come into work when it goes and stay home when it comes back.’
‘Reee … ally?’ Dorothea stretched the word questioningly. ‘Sure you’re not … you know … Have Stephen and you been naughty?’
Janet baulked at the thought. Stephen was a friend of Henry’s and was wheeled out on a regular basis as her partner for the evening when they went out in a foursome. Dorothea, Stephen too, read more into the relationship than she did.
‘No! Don’t be so stupid!’
Dorothea feigned hurt feelings. ‘All right, darling. No need to snap.’
Janet self-consciously ran her hand over her stomach. She gripped the telephone receiver hard as she replaced it in its cradle. Oh God. Not that! It didn’t happen on the first occasion, did it? Pray, she thought as she did a quick mental check of her monthly diary. One week, she calculated, until she would know.
Dorothea was waiting outside the Grand Spa, her arm looped through that of Henry. Janet’s date, Stephen, was with them, his hair astoundingly neat, his jaw strong, his blue eyes shining with interest the moment he saw her.
‘You look nice,’ he said and tried to take her hand. She withdrew it swiftly and saw the injured look on his face. ‘No need to be prickly.’
‘Time of the month!’ laughed Henry.
Dorothea laughed with him.
Janet wished it was the time of the month. But she wouldn’t let either that or them spoil the evening. ‘I’m going to enjoy myself,’ she stated and marched off ahead of them into the ballroom.
‘Wait for me, Janet, darling,’ called Stephen waving the invitation as his gangly frame set out behind her. He offered her his arm. ‘They won’t let you in without a ticket,’ he said in the sort of accent beloved of the best BBC announcer.
‘Why?’ asked Janet tersely as she slid her arm in his.
Stephen laughed. ‘Golly, I know it’s the dawning of a new age and all that, but really, we still have certain standards, don’t we? The rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate … Do you know what I mean?’
‘Yes!’ snapped Janet, seeing him for the snob he was and letting go his arm.
Red, white and blue bunting hung from the ballroom ceiling. Union Jacks fluttered from walls, crepe paper of the same colours was strung between the sparkling chandeliers. Everyone was smiling and laughing. Those that didn’t usually drink were getting very drunk; those that didn’t usually dance were cavorting around the floor not caring that their feet were treading on those of their partners, or that their sense of rhythm was at variance with that of the band.
Stephen bought her a glass of overpriced champagne, which he seemed to think entitled him to more than he deserved.
‘Just a kiss?’ he said, puckering his lips and closing his eyes.
‘Just a dance,’ she replied.
She didn’t really want him that close, and she tensed as he put his arms around her. The first time, she thought… the first time since that night … She had to get used to men again, and Stephen was as good as any to aid that process. Rape was something like falling off a horse. You had to get back on in case you lost your nerve. All the same, she was glad when the dance ended. But Henry, Dorothea’s intended, was in a party mood. He grabbed her hand before she had a chance to put her bottom down on a chair.
‘Dance with me.’ He swung her out at arm�
�s length towards the crowded dance floor.
Janet spun herself back towards her chair. ‘No!’
‘He won’t eat you, darling,’ cried Dorothea.
Janet gave in. The dance floor was crowded. A press of massed bodies all foxtrotting to something by Mantovani necessitated him holding her tightly to his body. The noise, the heat, the close proximity of him and the dancers made her want to run, but the dance floor was too tightly packed. She’d have to wait for the right moment.
Henry whispered something close to her ear, which she didn’t quite catch. There was just too much noise. She said ‘Yes’ anyway and hoped it was the right answer.
‘Do you mean that?’
She left her thoughts and looked up into his face. ‘What?’
‘I asked if you would let me feel whether you’re wearing a corset or a roll-on.’ He sounded as though he might have been joking, but there was no mistaking the look in his eyes. Janet stiffened as his fingers traced circles on her bare back.
Disgusted and angry, she spun quickly away. He followed her as she nudged her way through the dancing couples, whose faces were red from too much alcohol, their bodies sticky with sweat. The smell of perspiration, drink and perfume mixed with that of dusty flags and warm nylon.
A man sporting a Union Jack dicky bow and a girl with a sash of red and blue against a white dress bumped against them. Janet stopped dead. Henry bumped up behind her, his body tight against hers.
‘Don’t touch me!’
Perhaps he didn’t hear. His hands were on her hips and his breath was moist on the nape of her neck. His voice was low. ‘I already know what Dorothea wears. In fact she’s peeled her rubber garment off while I’ve been putting mine in place – if you know what I mean.’ His tongue flicked at her ear.
Of course she knew what he meant! ‘What a surprise,’ she said with heavy sarcasm. ‘And there was I thinking Dorothea was the next Virgin Mary!’
As they left the dance floor, his right hand closed over her arm. His left caressed her bare shoulder. ‘But I’d still like to see yours,’ he said in that confident, crystal cut voice of his.