Coronation Summer

by Margaret Pemberton

  ‘Then see to it, Adams.’ Deborah’s manner was even testier than usual. She was too discomposed at once again being south of the river, too worried about Matthew, to be bothered with an irritation that was, after all, Adam’s concern, not hers.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ Adams swung a little bumpily into Magnolia Square, drawing to a halt outside number four, too accustomed to his employer’s irritability to be rattled by it. ‘If you’re going to be long, Ma’am, I could nip to the garage in Shooter’s Hill Road. It’ll be easier for me to mend the puncture, or change the wheel, there. A half hour should be long enough and—’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ The last thing Deborah wanted to be bothered with were the ins and outs of attending to a punctured tyre. She wanted to speak with Kate Emmerson again, and to do so without the hampering presence of Leon Emmerson.

  Adams opened the rear passenger-seat door for her and, the instant she was safely on the pavement, returned to the car. He hadn’t felt too good for the past day or so and wasn’t relishing the thought of having to tussle with a tyre. The sooner the job was done, the happier he would be.

  As he drove away, Deborah breathed in deeply, preparing herself for the ordeal ahead. The Emmerson house would no doubt be full to overflowing with undesirables again, but as she wanted to be on the spot while the day’s search for Matthew was taking place, their proximity would just have to be endured. Using a parasol as a walking stick, she made her way up the shallow flight of steps leading to the lemon-painted door, grudgingly noting the pretty and carefully tended pots of herbs lining her way. Lavender. She grew a lot of lavender in her garden at Tumblers. It associated well with rosemary, and there was rosemary here, too, as well as thyme and basil and flamboyant, purple sage.

  For a brief second it was almost possible to imagine herself miles away from south-east London, and then a voice called out with offensive familiarity, ‘You’re wastin’ your time callin’ on the Emmersons! ’E’s down by the river with a party of neighbours, looking for ’is missing lad, and she’s with a couple of women friends, doin’ the same thing!’

  Majestically Deborah turned, looking back towards the pavement.

  Lettie Deakin shifted a laden shopping basket from one hand to the other. ‘And the older kids are all at school and little Johnny’s bein’ looked after by the vicar’s wife, so you won’t get an answer no matter how long you stand there knocking,’ she added informatively.

  Not by a flicker did Deborah reveal how she felt at this news. She merely made the slightest possible inclining movement with her head, indicating chill gratitude for the unasked-for information. Lettie sniffed, unimpressed. Nobs. They were all the same. None of them had a civilized word for anyone but their own. It would serve the Emmersons’ posh visitor right if she had to stand on their doorstep all day waiting for them to come home.

  As Lettie continued on her way, muttering beneath her breath, Deborah’s lips tightened. She had specifically told the Emmersons she would be returning today to wait for news of Matthew. Or had she? She frowned, trying to remember. Had she, instead, said that her chauffeur would take her down to the area Leon Emmerson intended searching? And just how long was Adams going to be before he returned for her? Had he said half an hour? And if he had, how could she possibly stand in the street for such a length of time? Only common people stood in the street. She looked around for somewhere to sit, but there was only the low wall fronting the garden. Never in her eighty-four years had she sat on a garden wall, and she wasn’t about to begin now. She gritted her teeth, her kid-gloved hands tightening on the carved ivory handle of her parasol as she steeled herself to wait for Adams’s return.

  From her doorway and sagging-bottomed armchair, Nellie Miller watched Deborah Harvey with interest. Her house was at the bottom end of the square, and as the Emmersons’ house was at the top end, on the opposite side, and St Mark’s Church dominated the centre of the square, she didn’t have a totally unrestricted view. She could, however, if she leaned as far as possible to the left, see past the corner of the church to at least a partial view of number four. She had done a lot of leaning to the left in the days during the war, when the Harvey Bentley had first driven into the square, parking outside the Emmersons and setting everyone’s eyes out on stalks. Its chauffeured occupant then had been old man Harvey, Matthew’s great-grandfather. Now, if the gossip grapevine was to be trusted, it was Deborah Harvey, Matthew’s great-aunt.

  The ramrod-straight figure wavered slightly and Nellie made a disparaging noise, not remotely surprised. It was a hot day – far too hot to be guyed-up as Deborah Harvey was guyed-up, a mauve toque hat crowning her head, a royal purple coat reaching nearly to her ankles.

  Minutes ticked by and still the Bentley, which had edged out of the square a good twenty minutes earlier, didn’t return.

  ‘So what are yer goin’ to do, ducks?’ Nellie asked ruminatively, as if Deborah Harvey was within hearing distance.

  What Deborah Harvey did was to move away from the Emmersons’ front door and, with increasing unsteadiness, begin descending the steps that led to the pathway. Even before she had reached it, Nellie could no longer see her. As the minutes ticked by and she didn’t again come into view, either making her way up the square, or down it, Nellie’s concern grew. ‘She’s come over queer,’ she said to herself, knowing the feeling, for with her weight she came over queer with tedious regularity. She sighed heavily and, knowing there was only one thing to be done, she embarked on the mammoth task of heaving herself out of her chair and onto her feet.

  Dizzy from the heat and the unaccustomed exhaustion of standing, Deborah saw a moving mountain lumberingly making its way towards her.

  ‘Ain’t the Emmersons in?’ the mountain of flesh said a few minutes later, puffing for breath as it came to a halt in front of her.

  Appalled at being addressed in public in such a manner, and by such a person, Deborah drew in an affronted breath, about to deliver a suitably crushing reply. None came. She felt too unwell to speak. She felt very unwell indeed.

  The absence of an answer to her question didn’t faze Nellie, for she didn’t need one. Having watched all the many comings and goings in the square since early morning, she knew very well that the Emmersons weren’t home. ‘Ain’t feelin’ very chipper, are yer?’ she said sympathetically. ‘It’s them barmy clothes yer wearin’.’ She indicated her own massive and mottled unstockinged legs and comfy, cut-at-the-sides-to-make-more-room, slippers. ‘Yer need to let the air get to yer flesh in this ’eat. I do. I ain’t worn anythin’ confinin’ fer years.’

  ‘My chauffeur . . . the garage . . .’ Deborah swayed giddily. She needed Adams and the Bentley and a swift ride back to Genevre’s Kensington flat and a restorative pot of Lapsang Souchong. ‘If he could be contacted . . . told I’ve been taken unwell . . .’

  Nellie looked up the square towards Magnolia Terrace and then down the square, towards Magnolia Hill. There was no one about, not even a playing kiddie. ‘Yer might ’ave quite a wait till someone who could trot to the garage puts in an appearance,’ she said, ‘an’ I can’t go. It’s winded me just comin’ over to see if yer’d like to sit in my ’ouse for a while and ’ave a cuppa.’

  Deborah’s eyes took on a glazed expression. Was this vulgar mound of a woman actually suggesting that she, Deborah Harvey, accompany her to her house for a cup of tea? It was so unthinkable a suggestion, so preposterous, it beggared belief.

  ‘Yer don’t need to worry about not being able to see yer chauffeur when ’e comes back fer yer,’ Nellie said, assuming this to be the reason for the lack of a grateful response. ‘If I could see you from my front doorway, we’ll be able to see ’im, an’ when he comes back we can give ’im a ’olla so ’e’ll know where you are.’

  Deborah put a gloved hand to her throbbing head, knocking her toque hat awry as she did so. She had thought she was being accosted by a casual passer-by, and it was dawning on her that this was not the case and that the woman had puffed and panted her
way across the square purposefully in order to help her. Considering the elephantine state of her legs and the difficulty she had in walking, it was an act of quite extraordinary kindness.

  ‘You’ll only get ’otter and dizzier if yer keep on standin’ ’ere,’ her unlikely Samaritan was now saying. ‘Whereas if we ’ang on to each other, we can be back across the square an’ in my front room ’avin’ a cup o’ char in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’

  Deborah had never in her life ‘hung on’ to anyone. Especially not to anyone stockingless, corsetless, and wearing broken-down slippers. A cup of tea, however, sounded wonderful – and if she didn’t have a cup of tea, there was the terrible possibility she might faint in the street. ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly as small black dots swam across her field of vision. ‘That would be . . . most kind.’

  ‘Bugger it being kind,’ Nellie gave a coarse cackle, taking hold of Deborah’s arm to give her some support, ‘I just don’t want you passin’ out on the pavement and makin’ the place look untidy!’

  ‘Crikey,’ Billy said, standing in the Tansy’s cabin hatchway. ‘Someone’s made a right old mess in here.’

  There were sheets of newspaper littered everywhere, a pile of what looked like recently gathered wood kindling, several empty tins of food, a tin kettle. Desperately eager to see for herself, Daisy squeezed past him into the cabin. At the sight that met her eyes, she felt a thankfulness so deep she knew she would never forget it. ‘It’s Matthew’s mess!’ she gasped exultantly. ‘It must be!’ With shining eyes she began picking up the newspapers, looking for the date on them, saying as she did so, ‘No-one else would camp out here, would they?’ She thrust a newspaper towards him. ‘Look! It’s only a few days old!’ Her voice cracked and broke and she began to laugh and cry at the same time. ‘Matthew’s been here ever since he ran away, Billy! We’ve found him! We’ve found him!’

  Billy’s relief was nearly as great as her own. He was old enough to remember the day Matthew was born. He had been nine years old and he and Beryl had made a pint of liquorice-water and bottled it in an old lemonade bottle. He had taken the foul-coloured concoction round to number four as a gift for Matthew and, when Kate had gently explained that babies couldn’t drink liquorice-water, had selflessly drunk it himself in order not to waste it.

  He said now, stepping cautiously into the cabin, terrified of dislodging the barge from its rusty anchorage, ‘What do we do now? Let your mum and dad know or wait ’ere till Matthew comes back from wherever ’e’s nipped off to?’

  Daisy’s hesitation was fractional. It would take ages to get back to Magnolia Square, and even when they did get back there, it was doubtful if her mum and dad would be home. They would still be out, searching. ‘We’ll wait,’ she said, euphoric at the thought of the greeting they would receive when they walked into Magnolia Square with Matthew in tow. ‘I’m so happy, Billy! I’ve never been so happy before!’

  In the small and dingy cabin, she was a picture of such radiant perfection that Billy’s heart felt as if it were somersaulting in his chest. ‘Daisy . . .’ With a voice just as choked with emotion as hers had been, he began to cross the distance dividing them. Now, while they were out on the lonely creek, and the only person who could possibly disturb them was Matthew, was the time for him to kiss her as he had ached to kiss her for so long. He reached out for her, saying clumsily, ‘I love yer, Daisy. I’ve always loved yer. I love yer so much I don’t know how to—’

  She didn’t let him finish. She danced into his arms, hugging him tight, tears of joy salt-wet on her cheeks. ‘You’re wonderful, Billy! No one else thought of looking here for Matthew! Not even Dad!’ Her budding breasts were pressed hard against his chest like little apples. Her gleaming cap of blue-black hair was as soft against the curve of his jaw as silk. There was a delicious fragrance of lemons about her, as if she’d washed with lemon-scented soap or rinsed her hair in lemon-juice. And, overcome by the wonder of their having found Matthew’s hiding-place, she wasn’t listening to him. She wasn’t listening to a single word.

  ‘Daisy . . .’ His voice took on a note of rough urgency. He had to make headway with her now, for if he didn’t, it might be ages before he had another such opportunity. ‘Daisy, listen to me. I’m glad about Matthew, but it ain’t Matthew I want to talk about. I want to talk about us.’

  She moved within the circle of his arms, looking up at him, her glowing eyes meeting his. Terrified she was also about to step away from him, he held her fast, saying with raw hoarseness, ‘I want to kiss yer, Daisy. Yer don’t have to kiss me back, if yer don’t want, but I want to kiss yer! I have to kiss yer!’

  Daisy was riding such a wave of ecstatic emotion there was no room for caution. Billy had found Matthew, and when she told him he was wonderful, she had meant it with all her heart. A smile of happy compliance curved her lips. If Billy wanted to kiss her, then she very much wanted to be kissed.

  Sensing her reaction, Billy’s heart began slamming against his ribcage as if it was going to explode. This was the moment he’d dreamed about for years; this was a moment he would remember for as long as he lived. ‘I love yer, Daisy,’ he said, the breath catching at the back of his throat as he lowered his head to hers. ‘I shall love yer for always.’

  Daisy trembled, aware of the solemnity of the promise, and then his mouth was on hers, hot and sweet, and time rocked and stood still, never to be the same again.

  Carrie, Christina and Kate sat in rare silence around Carrie’s kitchen table. Christina was never overly talkative and Kate was never raucous, but usually when they were together Carrie’s infectious exuberance saw to it that they were as gossipy and giggly as schoolgirls. Now, however, after their day-long abortive search for Matthew, all three of them were deep in silent, unshared thoughts.

  A baby, Christina was thinking. A baby would make her feel complete and whole. Without a baby, there seemed no point to anything. Without a baby, she and Jack weren’t a family. They were just two people with not even nationality or religion in common, who had fallen heedlessly in love and, believing that the differences between them wouldn’t matter, had married. Her hands tightened in her lap as she stared at the plate of ginger biscuits which Carrie had placed on the table. The differences between them wouldn’t have mattered if there was a baby, or if Jack agreed to adopt a baby. But he hadn’t done so. Wouldn’t do so. And now, because she could no longer endure lovemaking and the cruel hope, always dashed, that lovemaking brought in its wake, their marriage was becoming crippled – so crippled that even thinking about it made her want to gasp with pain.

  Carrie’s thoughts didn’t make her want to gasp. They were far too mind-shattering for such a straightforward reaction. All day long she had been unable to think of anything but the long, passionate embrace she had shared with Zac Hemingway, one turbulent emotion following hard on the heels of another as she had tried to come to terms with her behaviour. First had come guilt, then disbelief, then the fervent resolve never to even speak to him again. Utter horror at the desolation she would feel if she kept this resolution had then swamped her like a tidal wave. She had to see him again. If she didn’t see him again she would die.

  This realization had set the whole crazy cycle of reactions into a fresh spin. She was thirty-five years old, for goodness sake, not a love-struck adolescent! Her struggle for common sense had made no difference whatsoever. She felt as if she were an adolescent. She felt young and joyful and alive.

  Her hands tightened around her untasted mug of tea. Was this wonderful, dizzying feeling how Kate felt about Leon? How Christina felt about Jack? If it were, there was far, far more lacking in her marriage to Danny than she had ever previously imagined. The question was, what was she going to do about it? She remembered the deep, delicious, giddy joy of being held in Zac’s arms, and her cheeks burned a fiery red. She knew what she wanted to do about it – by crikey she did – and it was something no one who knew her would ever believe.

  Kate took a sip of her
tea, not tasting it, her thoughts full of Matthew. Where was he? What would she do if all the searches failed to find him? If he never returned home again? When she, Carrie and Christina returned to the square a half hour or so ago, Harriet Robson had called out to them that Leon’s search party still hadn’t returned. ‘Don’t go into an empty house,’ Carrie had said to her, aware of how she must be feeling. ‘You and Christina come home with me and I’ll make us all a cuppa.’ And so here she was, sitting in Carrie’s, waiting, as she had waited for three days now, for news of her eldest son. To have done so without also thinking of his dead father would have been an impossibility. Toby Harvey had been her first, and until Leon had come into her life after his death, her only love. His photograph stood in a silver frame on their mantelpiece, his place in her heart special and unique.

  Leon had never been jealous, for he had always known he had no reason to be, that though Toby was part of the pattern of her life, and a very special part, it was the love she now shared with him that was its whole. Now, staring down into her tea, her thoughts were of the days before the war, when she and Toby had first met, when everything had seemed golden and full of rosy promise.

  ‘Carrie!’ Though the kitchen was at the back of the house, the women heard the front door crash back on its hinges and recognized Mavis’s voice. ‘Are you in?’ she was demanding now as the house reverberated from her noisy entrance. ‘I’ve bin lookin’ fer you all bleedin’ day!’

  Jolted out of her reverie of Zac, Carrie rose speedily to her feet. Mavis in a temper was the last thing she needed when she had Kate and Christina in the house, especially when Kate was so deeply distressed. ‘Hang on and I’ll be with you!’ she yelled back, walking swiftly out of the kitchen in order that the confrontation could take place without an audience. The instant she saw the expression on Mavis’s face, she forgot all about sparing Kate and Christina the sight of a sisterly tussle. Mavis wasn’t on one of her usual trawls for an enjoyable scrap. Standing in the centre of the hallway, Jack a yard or so behind her, she looked positively ill.