Coronation Wives (17 page)

A woman! A woman! She could see his face now, his mouth twitching as he fought to control the urge to spit or swear. He would hate having to deal with a woman, as if they were of a specific breed incapable of filling in a host of Government forms.

You’ll be fine, she told herself, and immediately assumed the confident air of someone who knows how to handle people.

Brent View Cottage was down a narrow lane, which left the main road on the right-hand side after entering the village and crossing over the river just past the Miners’ Institute.

Charlotte checked the particulars filled in on the official form. The landlady’s name was Mrs Stanley. Hopefully she’d be an improvement on Mrs Halifax, though you couldn’t always tell on first sight of either the landlady or the lodgings.

The large cottage was not chocolate box pretty like those set in the rolling hills of Devon or Dorset. This was a mining area, the tail end of the Welsh coal seams. Its no-nonsense construction reflected a hard industry where men still crawled on their bellies in the narrower parts of the seam and clawed the
coal from the earth by physical force with a short-handled pickaxe.

The cottage was heavily built of local pennant stone, its roof shading a fretwork weatherboard and set back windows. Scarlet geraniums glared through glass panes and bustled against the trelliswork that formed a porch around the door. It seemed well looked after.

Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief though reserved judgement. But she was hopeful. Despite its austere construction, the place had a far sunnier aspect than the lodging house in St Paul’s. As if to confirm first impressions, the sun obliged by peering out from behind a cloud at the same time as Charlotte lifted the brass knocker and tapped on the door. A pair of bright, deep-set eyes set in a round, friendly face appeared. ‘Come in, me dears.’ The door was flung wide. Mrs Stanley was a woman of round body and ruddy complexion. Red veins ran together and glowed on each cheek, reminding Charlotte of the wooden Dutch dolls from many years ago, their facial features formed entirely by the vivid application of red and black paint. Red polka dots patterned the old-fashioned apron she wore, the same red as the geraniums, both brightly contrasting with her grey hair, which was gripped firmly by half a dozen steel pincers from the brow backwards on each side of her head. Flappers used the same contraptions back in the twenties to produce Marcel waves. Mrs Stanley was most definitely of that generation, but her head presently resembled an armour-plated porcupine.

They stepped straight from the road into the sitting room where a brass fender glowed against an old-fashioned coal black range. Even though it was summer, a copper kettle puffed away merrily on a hot, black hob. Porcelain cups with gilt borders sat around a red-checked tea cosy in the centre of the table. Tea had brewed.

Charlotte introduced the three men and Mrs Stanley wrote down their names phonetically, exactly as Charlotte pronounced them.

‘Jan, Ivan and Paul,’ Mrs Stanley stated after failing in her attempts to remember how to pronounce their surnames. Their first names were easier to remember.

As they all made themselves comfortable in Mrs Stanley’s front parlour, Charlotte took the opportunity to ask the men if they’d been given a packed lunch. It turned out they hadn’t. She gave Mrs Stanley a pleading look and the woman nodded knowingly.

‘They’ll have a good packed lunch when they go down,’ she said emphatically. ‘Men ’ave got to be fed right doin’ a ’ard job like that.’

Charlotte could have kissed her.

They drank tea and ate digestives while waiting for Mrs Stanley to make up some food to take with them. Charlotte took the opportunity to study closely the place where the men would be staying.

Mrs Stanley, she decided, didn’t fall into the same category as Mrs Halifax. The sitting room was furnished with old but solid mahogany furniture dating from the end of the last century. The walls were covered in green and brown Victorian wallpaper and there were thickly patterned rugs on the floor that had a vaguely oriental look about them. Despite the dark decor the room felt warm and the fresh smell of beeswax was evidence to its cleanliness.

Photographs in ebony and plain wooden frames sat on the sideboard and hung from the wall above it on long chains that were hooked to a picture rail. Charlotte got up from her chair and studied a sepia print of a man in dark clothes standing on the deck of a ship.

‘My Ernest,’ Mrs Stanley explained bustling back into the
room with the same sunny disposition as the geraniums sitting on the window ledge. ‘Merchant navy. Got torpedoed in the Mediterranean. ’Course, he was only young in that photo.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Charlotte said assuming he was dead.

Mrs Stanley burst into laughter. ‘Oh no! You’ve got the wrong idea. He ain’t dead, me dear. Some Italians in a fishing boat rescued him and, as luck would ’ave it, an old maid with some money owned it. Took a fancy to ’im, she did. And what with that hot sun and warm sea, well, you can guess the rest. He had what he wanted out there and decided not to come home. But I keep his photo ’ere and use ’im as an excuse – just in case any bloke wants to move in on me. And I’m quite comfortable, you see. Ernest said I could keep the cottage though it’s been in his family for generations. But I do like meeting people. And I do like male company,’ she added with a salacious smirk. ‘That’s why I take in lodgers.’

Charlotte was still smiling on the drive to the mine. Mrs Stanley had almost made her forget that she still had to face the foreman.

‘Nice lady,’ said Ivan who had again taken the seat beside her in the car.

‘Yes,’ said Charlotte. ‘I think so too.’

Just as she had expected, the foreman at the mine was surprised at having to deal with a woman. Eyebrows thick as caterpillars beetled over his nose and, although she would stand her ground and make sure things were done properly, he made her feel guilty at being there. Perhaps, she thought, the Poles would be better received if a man had brought them and couldn’t help feeling a little regretful on their behalf. But you insisted, she said to herself. You insisted you could manage and Mr Brookman had been fair enough to accept that. He was one of the few who didn’t mind whether it was a man or a woman sorting things out – as long as the job was done.

The formalities were completed. Each man produced his identification, a book the size of a passport with the word ‘Alien’ stamped across the front. The foreman studied each one carefully before handing her ‘Authorisation to Employ’ slips for each one.

Charlotte started to relax. Perhaps everything was going to run smoothly and she’d be away and back home more quickly than she’d expected. But then she saw the look on Ivan’s face. He was staring at something in the vicinity of the foreman’s tie and his face was white with anger.

He grabbed the thin, grey book from Charlotte’s hand. ‘I am not staying here.’ His mouth was fixed in a firm, straight line. He spun on his heel and started to walk away.

Charlotte was taken completely by surprise. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’

Running after him on high but fairly sensible heels, she grabbed his arm before he got clean away and tried to reason with him. ‘This man has to look at your identification details before employing you. After that I have to take your book to the police station for stamping because you’ve changed both your address and your job. Do you understand that?’

‘Of course I do.’

Ivan’s features were hard as stone. He explained something in Polish to the others, his eyes never leaving the face of the foreman.

Sensing he was being criticized, the foreman’s face turned angry. ‘They can stop talkin’ in that foreign chatter round ’ere. I’m not ’aving it. Tell them that.’

Charlotte spun on him. Her manner was clipped. ‘I’ll tell them no such thing. This is a free country and they’re quite entitled to use whatever language they like.’

‘Not ’ere they ain’t!’

‘Be careful what you are saying, Mr Pratley, or you won’t
be getting any cheap labour from us at all.’ Her tone was frosty.

‘We pay them well!’

Charlotte put on her most superior manner, sniffed and turned away. ‘That’s not what I hear. However, we cannot dispute your claim that they have to go through a training period first.’

‘Of course they do!’ Pratley shouted. ‘They get full pay once they’ve done that.’

‘Then I hope it won’t be too long,’ Charlotte responded, her eyes blazing. ‘I’m not here to argue. They want work. You want labour. That’s all that matters.’

‘I am not working for him!’ growled Ivan.

The others looked from one to another, exchanged excited comments in Polish, then looked to Ivan and said something.

‘I am not staying,’ he said. ‘The others are not so sure. They do not wish to upset anyone.’

The foreman waved one brawny arm, an aggressive gesture that failed to impress because anyone watching could see there was fear in his eyes. ‘Tell them they can either start now or get out!’

Ivan flung his arm up dismissively, spat on the ground and walked away. Charlotte, not understanding quite what was going on, ran after him. She found him leaning on her car breathing deeply and frowning savagely.

Now it was her turn to be angry. ‘What do you think you are playing at? Have you no gratitude for what we are trying to do for you?’

He faced her quickly, his eyes narrowing. ‘To you personally, yes! As a country, no!’

Charlotte took a deep breath. She did not understand, but had no intention of failing in her efforts to see these men settled. ‘Look! Stay here and calm down. I’ll go back and see what the others want to do.’

‘They will stay and work. They are new to this country. It is their first job.’

She went back to find out anyway. Sure enough, Ivan was right.

‘We stay,’ said the one with the crumpled face who had taken his cap from his head and was twisting it nervously, his eyes darting from her to the gross features and piggy eyes of the foreman. The man who couldn’t speak English merely nodded. He too had taken his cap off.

The foreman took a watch from his waistcoat pocket, flicked it open and studied the time. ‘Well, I can’t bloody wait around for your other bloke. He’s your responsibility. I’ve got work to do.’

Charlotte thought about the watch. Surely Ivan wasn’t adverse to such a British show of ostentation? The foreman held one side of his coat open as he slid the watch back in its rightful place. Something shone in his lapel. Charlotte narrowed her eyes. It was a badge, nothing more than a red star. She thought she knew what it signified, but couldn’t be sure.

Once she’d sorted out bus times with the two men who’d decided to stay she said her goodbyes. They were on their own now – except of course that regular reports would be sent to the Home Office on their behaviour and they had to carry their Alien Book around at all times.

When she got outside Ivan was still leaning over the car, hands clenched tightly together, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

Outwardly businesslike, but inwardly apprehensive, she opened the driver’s side door. She would most certainly be getting to the bottom of this.

‘Get in!’

Ivan did as ordered.

He was waiting for her to say something and she was
certainly aching to do so. It finally burst out when her grip on the wheel could get no tighter.

‘You have to have a job!’

‘I know.’ He didn’t even blink. His voice was steady.

Charlotte moderated her tone. She refused to be angry. ‘You cannot stay in this country if you do not get one.’

‘I know that too.’

He sounded as though his anger was being reined in but, like a wilful horse, fighting it all the way. If she was ever to help this man she had to gain his confidence and quickly. She wasn’t
that
familiar with the road so had to concentrate. Miraculously a tractor pulled out of a field and ambled along in front of them. She changed down a gear or two, sighed and softened her voice. ‘I saw the red star. I know what it means.’

‘No, you do not!’

His clipped tone surprised her. Had she sounded condescending? She thought not, but took advantage of their slow speed to glance at his face. Anger still furrowed his brow. Well she wasn’t stupid and she’d most certainly let him know that.

‘Yes, I do know the red star means he’s a member of the Communist party. But it hardly matters—’

He cut in. ‘Did you know that Truman and Churchill handed Poland on a plate to Stalin after the war? Did you know that some of those who had worked for the Resistance and then taken jobs with the US or British army were coached off back to Poland whether they wanted to go or not?’

‘Well, I didn’t really …’ Charlotte found herself blustering. She hated pleading ignorance, but couldn’t help defending her own country. ‘But that was yesterday, and tomorrow is—’

‘They never got home!’

‘Don’t bloody shout at me!’

His mouth dropped open. She didn’t look the sort to shout like a fishwife or use the language of a docker. But Charlotte
hated being shouted at. David had done a lot of shouting – as well as physical abuse – when he’d first come back from the war. She’d accepted it back then with fortitude, but she would not accept it now.

‘I am very sorry.’

‘That’s all right.’ She didn’t want to hear the details about what had happened to Ivan prior to his arrival in Britain. One man with nightmarish memories was plenty enough to cope with.

Silently they drove to the police station, which boasted the Miners’ Institute and a village pub as neighbours. The sun was getting stronger and a heat haze shimmered further up the hill. There was a smell of coal tar as the road started to bake and melt into a black goo that streamed into the gutter.

Charlotte patted her cheeks with the backs of her hands. Surprising how cotton gloves retained their coolness despite summer heat. Her brow was warm too. She pushed a little damp hair back onto her head and sighed.

Her nylons crackled with electricity as she got out of the car. The heels of her court shoes tapped sharply on the pavement and the wide swirl of her calf-length skirt hung limp in the heat.