Coronation Wives
Authors: Lizzie Lane
Contents
It’s 1953. Coronation Year.
While Bristol is still recovering from the aftermath of the war, three very different women are counting the cost.
Polly longs for an easier, more glamorous life, but with her irrepressible young daughter and her charming – if scheming – husband, will things improve?
Charlotte is trying to forget her illicit wartime romance and accept the shortcomings of her marriage.
And Edna is desperate to protect her young family, even if it means keeping secrets…
Lizzie Lane was born and brought up in south Bristol and has worked in law, the probation service, tourism and as a supporting artiste in such dramas as
Casualty
and
Holby City
, which are both set in Bristol.
She is married with one daughter and currently lives with her husband on a 46-foot sailing yacht, dividing her time between Bath and the Med. Sometimes they mix with the jet set and sometimes they just chill out in a bay with a computer, a warm breeze and a gin and tonic!
Wartime Brides
To my husband Dennis, a great supporter of the arts – namely me. To Jan Rozek, who fought the Nazis, fled the Communists, and became a miner in South Wales.
Janet saw Henry waving from his two-seater sports car outside the Odeon Cinema and knew she’d be going home alone.
‘He can’t resist me,’ said a gleeful Dorothea, squeezing her arm before galloping off down the steps on four-inch heels.
Feeling less than happy, Janet followed. Yet again Dorothea’s fiancé had turned up when least expected, his hair slick, his chin shiny – and his hands everywhere.
‘Like a scene from an X-rated film,’ Janet muttered to herself then called, ‘Goodnight, sweethearts,’ and headed up Union Street.
‘You don’t have to go,’ Dorothea shouted after her.
Janet glanced over her shoulder. Her friend had not disengaged herself from Henry’s lascivious embrace. Of course she had to go. Playing gooseberry was not her idea of fun.
‘It’s a fine night and I fancy a walk,’ she lied although the sky was turning leaden and a cold breeze was sending discarded ice-lolly papers dancing in a circle on the pavement.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘Sorry about this …’
‘Rubbish,’ Janet muttered. ‘Flattery will get Henry everything he wants.’
Right on cue, she heard him say, ‘Darling, you look just like Doris Day. I could eat you.’
She almost ran up Union Street in case they heard her laughing. An article in
Moviegoer
had remarked that Doris Day was as wholesome as apple pie. Dorothea was something else entirely, and Henry knew it, damn him! This was not the first time he’d turned up to collect Dorothea after a girls’ night out for some late night groping in Leigh Woods or Durdham Down.
Her laughter had died by the time she turned into the Castle Street area, a desolate stretch of bombed out ruins where the city shopping centre used to be.
‘Once I Had a Secret Love’, ‘The Deadwood Stage’ and ‘Take Me Back to the Black Hills’ were still in her head. Doris Day had been Calamity Jane, singing heroine of the last frontier, not exactly to her taste, but Dorothea loved musicals and Doris Day in particular. She was putty in Henry’s hands.
The desolation that used to be Castle Street lacked buildings, pavements and streetlights, but wasn’t completely dark. Lights suspended from temporary cables threw pools of ice blue. Makeshift walkways bridging deep cellars once hidden beneath pre-war buildings and now exposed to the sky echoed to her footsteps. Almost as though I’m being followed, she thought.
The past was beneath her feet. The future fluttered above her head. Masses of red, white and blue bunting shimmied on rough rope strung between the few streetlights and a huge banner proclaiming,
BRISTOL WELCOMES A NEW ELIZABETHAN AGE
The banner cracked stiffly in the evening breeze. With the bunting it seemed incongruously brazen, optimistically garish
against the forest of weeds growing from crumbling walls and mountains of rubble.
Typically for June, it began to drizzle, not enough to warrant an umbrella, but certainly enough to dampen a woman’s sugar-stiff hairdo or send globules of Brylcreem down masculine necks. Dark shadows in ruined doorways came to life as courting couples left to search for buses and taxicabs.
Janet quickened her step. Why linger? It was hardly worth admiring the view and the smell of greenery was tempered with that of ancient dust and recent rubbish.
Some way ahead the streetlights ended, the well-lit ground sharply defined like a cliff edge falling away into an ink black sea.
She barely noticed the moving shadow or the smell of a burning cigarette, its glow as the smoker flung it to the ground at her approach. With contempt born of familiarity, she walked into the darkness – and sorely wished she hadn’t.
‘Do not scream!’
He was strong, smelled of sweat, dirt and dust.
She sucked in her breath, instantly limp, instantly afraid.
He held her arm behind her back in a vice-like grip. His free hand pressed tightly against her windpipe.
‘Do not scream,’ he said again.
Despite her predicament, her senses remained sharp. She heard a church clock strike the half hour, strained her ears for the sound of footsteps.
More quietly this time, ‘Do not scream’, soft and moist against her ear. He said the words so precisely, so purposefully, as though he had only lately learned how to roll them over his tongue.
It was so very dark, midnight black, and, strangely enough, she was glad. She could not see the face of her attacker. She could smell him, hear him, feel the brute force of his body
grinding her onto the bruising stones and scratching weeds, but she could not distinguish his features.
Clumsy, quick fingers groped beneath her sweater then between her legs. His breath surged against her ear like the hot waves of an urgent tide, rising, falling and rising again in time with his thrusting body and the pain he inflicted on her.
Best to close her eyes. Best not to allow even the tiniest chance of seeing his features. She didn’t want to remember his face. The feel of his body and the heat of his breath would stay with her for a very long time. Putting a face to such a dreadful occasion could well haunt her for the rest of her life. She would not allow it.
A grey donkey with bright yellow spots, a battleship and a model aeroplane were among the toys keeping the youngsters happy as the adults munched ham sandwiches and swigged back glasses of beer, lemonade or a sickly sweet punch made from dubious ingredients.
‘This is a time of celebration! Let’s give a toast to the new Queen.’
The workers of C. W. Smith Toys and their families raised their glasses in response to their employer, Colin Smith, founder and chairman of the company. His cheeks were red. His eyes were merry and he stood rigidly straight, as a man with tin legs is wont to do.
The words went up as one voice, loud enough to lift the raftered roof of the toy factory in which they were having the firm’s celebration in the week before the Coronation itself.
‘To the new Queen.’
‘And God bless her,’ Colin added, steadying himself with one hand while raising his glass high above his head.
After the toast, Charlotte Hennessey-White sat back down at the table she was sharing with Colin’s wife, Edna. Polly Hills,
whose husband had provided the tins of ham marked ‘Ministry of Food’ at a knockdown price, was sitting with them, her feet tapping in time to the tinny music from a wind-up record player. It was struggling to be heard above the din of chatting adults and shouting children.
Charlotte leaned close to Edna. ‘Your husband is thoroughly enjoying this, my dear.’
Polly, her face more flushed than Colin’s, overheard the remark, and gave Edna a nudge in the ribs. ‘Like the King ’imself. Whoops. I mean Queen. Gotta get used to that, ain’t we?’
Edna sighed and nostalgia misted her eyes. ‘I was a schoolgirl when her father was crowned. Where has the time gone? It doesn’t seem that long ago all three of us were on Temple Meads Station waiting for the men to come home after the war. Thank God they did.’
Polly swigged back the last of her drink then sighed heavily. ‘Trust mine to get himself killed. Bloody fool!’
Edna coloured up. ‘Sorry, Polly.’
Polly, her bleached blonde hair set off sharply by her black and white Prince of Wales check dress, shrugged her shoulders. ‘Some lived. Some died. Gavin died, or at least I presume he did. Either that or he didn’t want the responsibility of a wife and kid. But never mind. I ended up marrying Billy Hills. It ain’t so bad.’ She pouted her bright red lips and rested her chin on her hand. ‘Still. Would ’ave been nice to live in Canada. All that space, all them mountains.’
Charlotte looked surprised. ‘My dear! I didn’t know Carol’s father was Canadian. I had always assumed him to be American.’
Polly eyed her warily. Was she being sarcastic? What else could you think with a voice like that? It was just too Celia Johnson. Why couldn’t she adopt a more rounded accent like Greer Garson? Couldn’t say that though, could she? Well, not
exactly, but she had to say something. ‘Does Greer Garson have auburn hair?’
Charlotte didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘I do believe so. Why do you ask?’
‘Same as yours. You don’t sound like ’er though, do yow?’ She purposely laid on the Bristol accent as only a girl from the Dings could. If Charlotte noticed she didn’t let it show.
‘I don’t suppose I do. Would you like me to sound like her?’
Polly rose to her feet, swayed when she got there and had to rest her hands on the table to steady herself. ‘No offence, Charlotte
old thing
, but why can’t you be a bit more like us? Why didn’t you mess about a bit during the war like we did? I mean, ole David was away and a woman does ’ave needs, just like a bloke, don’t she?’
Charlotte’s face gave nothing away. ‘Yes. A woman does have needs.’ She knew Polly well. Being saucily provocative was a form of entertainment to her. Charlotte maintained her surveillance of those attending the party and stayed silent.
Realizing that Charlotte wasn’t going to bite, Polly sniffed disdainfully and wiggled her empty glass. ‘I’m off to get another of these and to see where my darlin’ ’ole man’s got to. Anyone else want one?’ Her voice was loud and her movements were as voluptuous as her figure.
Charlotte and Edna declined.
‘Please yourselves.’ Polly staggered into something resembling a dance and accompanied herself with a song. ‘A little of what you fancy does you good …’ She tottered a few steps forwards, staggered, and tottered almost as many back.
‘Gracie Fields used to sing that, didn’t she?’ she trilled over her shoulder. ‘She was common. Just like me.’
She giggled, then burst into song as she wound her way to where the dark red punch was lined up in half a dozen large enamel jugs.
‘I think she was being cheeky about the way you speak,’ Edna said, looking and feeling more embarrassed than Charlotte.