Coronation Wives (46 page)

‘No! She’s just ill,’ snapped Polly.

‘Well, I ain’t seen her.’ The woman pulled the child off her teat and covered her flaccid bosom with a less than clean cardigan and shouted, ‘Clifford! Come on. Time we was off.’

The command was directed at a small child whose legs were
dangling from one of the swings. His knees were the colour of cracked mud.

Polly turned away in disgust. She might come from the Dings and live in Knowle West, but for Christ’s sake, she’d always kept her Carol clean and she’d never breastfed in public. Disgusting!

A train rattling by drowned Clifford’s wails and his mother’s shouts as Polly made her way up the steep path that led back through the park towards the Bowling Green. All the way up she looked around her for any sign of Edna’s mother – and not necessarily wearing a dressing gown! The truth of the matter was she had an awful feeling that Mrs Burbage might be dressed in a lot less than that. She’d just been about to give her a bath and had got her half-stripped when the faint smell of burning had come up from the kitchen. The potatoes for tonight’s shepherd’s pie had boiled dry and Mr Burbage was out in the garden tending his runner beans so she couldn’t depend on him to do the obvious.

Three old gents in bowling whites were playing on the green when she got there. A very stout man was bending, about to take his shot, moving forward with uncommon grace, almost like a ballet dancer. She watched for a moment while she got her breath and willed the old chap to hit the jack. Hope I do too, she thought, and giggled to herself. Mickey O’Hara was getting himself a new employee to work in his nightclub and she was happy about it. Aunty Meg was not. She’d tried telling her that she’d be working as a receptionist, but it didn’t wash.

She’d decided to pack in looking after Ethel Burbage. She hoped Edna’s father wouldn’t be too upset. She’d tell Edna about it as soon as they’d found the old girl.

Although apprehensive at what he might say, Polly had plucked up the courage to tell Billy about the job Mickey had offered her. He’d looked a bit concerned – probably jealous.
But she’d pretended not to notice. Damn the bloke, he’d got ’imself into that bloody position and they were all having to put up with it.

There was a loud crack as the ball hit the jack and sent it racing across the lawn. It shook Polly from her thoughts and spurred her on to find Mrs Burbage – the old cow!

I’ll murder the old witch, she thought, shivering as she pulled her coat around herself and headed further up the hill to where a mass of laurel hedge and dense fir trees surrounded the park keeper’s house. A man wearing trousers with string tied just below his knees – obviously a gardener – came from that direction pushing a wheelbarrow full of garden tools.

Polly rushed up to him. ‘Have you seen—’

He pointed at the park keeper’s house. ‘A woman in pink corsets with ’er stockings round ’er ankles?’ His cheeks were apple red and he was grinning from ear to ear. Well, if he expected her to blush he was in for a disappointment – even if she was mortified!

She gave him a fierce poke in the chest. ‘And how would you know a pair of corsets from a liberty bodice unless you wears ’em yerself? I’ve heard about blokes like you hanging around in parks!’

He went redder – just as she’d wanted him to. But his smile remained and he looked at her as if he was in with a chance. Bloody cheek!

‘Are you—?’ he began.

‘Married!’ she snapped and swept past him up the path heading in the direction of the park keeper’s house.

These bushes smell dusty, she thought, as she turned between the clusters of bottle green laurel. She was keen to get this over with and would have marched on regardless if she hadn’t heard someone calling her. Darting back out from the bushes, she narrowed her eyes better to see the figure running
up the path towards her. Nice looking, athletic and long-legged. Who the bloody hell did she know like that?

Ivan! Now if she were going to take in lodgers, she’d stipulate that they’d all have to look like him – especially if she wasn’t married.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ She folded her arms beneath the warmth of her bosom as if good-looking blokes trying to get her attention never had impressed her.

‘I came to help you find Edna’s mother.’

‘Get yer coat off.’ She nodded at the khaki trench mac he was wearing, turned and started for the front door of the park keeper’s house.

Ivan followed her, his mac already off his shoulders and halfway down his arms.

The door of the park keeper’s house opened onto a small hallway with panelled walls and a wood-block floor. Mrs Burbage was sitting on the stairs of the house staring into the distance and humming distractedly. The park keeper was standing over her stroking the sort of moustache and side whiskers that had gone out of fashion around the time the ‘talkies’ came in.

‘Sorry about this,’ said Polly. ‘She’s not well.’

Eyes still fixed on Mrs Burbage, the man nodded thoughtfully. ‘I knew ’er when she was eighteen,’ he said.

‘You’re kidding!’

‘No, I’m not.’ He looked pleased with himself.

Polly grinned as a sudden vision of a more youthful Mrs Burbage sprang into being. It was always hard to think of older people having been young at one time, singing, dancing, falling in love – locking limbs with the opposite sex.

Polly bent low and touched the old woman’s shoulder. ‘Come on, Ethel. Time to go home before we find out all about yer lovelife.’

Edna’s mother raised her arm, but continued to stare into the distance. ‘There it is! The eleven o’clock to Weston! Will the tide be in, Mother? Can I paddle? Can I build sandcastles?’ Her voice was high like a small child’s.

You’re a grown woman! Of course not. Pull yourself together.

The words and the impatience were checked. Words were useless. Ethel wouldn’t understand and Polly didn’t want to say them.

‘Come on,’ she said, placing her arm around the old woman’s shoulders and gently raising her to her feet. ‘You’d better wrap up. There’s a bit of a draught when the train comes in. And when we get to Weston there’s bound to be a cold breeze coming off the sea.’

‘I don’t mind,’ cried a smiling Ethel Burbage, her eyes round and shining with the joy of a six-year-old child on her first trip to the seaside. ‘Can I ride on the donkeys?’

‘Only if you’ve got a threepenny bit.’

It didn’t really sink in. That was the way it was. Nothing really sunk in and when you thought it had it was swiftly forgotten. She turned away from Polly and raised her smiling face upwards to Ivan. ‘Are you going to build a sandcastle with me, Daddy?’

Touchingly, Ivan smiled back and at the same time placed his mac around her bare shoulders. ‘Of course I am,’ he said gently and together he and Polly took Edna’s mother back to Nutgrove Avenue.

‘No matter how bad she was in the past, it’s sad to see her like that,’ said Janet to Ivan after they’d dropped Edna and the children off. ‘I’m glad my mother’s not like that, though I sometimes wish she was more involved with her family and less with the flotsam and jetsam of the world.’

He was driving and kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He looked thoughtful.

‘A penny for them,’ she said softly.

Ivan raised his eyebrows. ‘A penny for what?’

‘Oh, for tomorrow, yesterday, the day before if you like, but mostly for your thoughts. What are you thinking about?’

‘Tomorrow,’ he said grimly.

‘Oh?’

‘I am taking your mother to help the flotsam and jetsam.’

Unwashed men, dirty bed linen and drying laundry hanging from lengths of string tied across the room, bare windows, bare boards and six camp beds, the sort they’d used in the air raid shelters during the war. This was where a man named Lech Rostok and five other refugees were living. Charlotte resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose.

‘I apologize,’ Lech Rostok mumbled nervously and looked ashamed. ‘It is difficult,’ he said apologetically.

‘It’s disgusting,’ Charlotte snapped, ‘and no fault of yours! Did you remember the name of the man who put you here?’

‘Mr O’Hara it was. He arranged everything.’

‘Did he now!’ She made no attempt to hide her outrage. It was not for any private individual to arrange accommodation or work for these men. That task fell to her department.

‘He said it would be cheaper and we would be closer to the building site,’ said Lech.

Her jaw ached with anger. These men were living in squalor and someone had to answer for it. At least they were willing to tell the tale.

‘And where will I find this Mr O’Hara?’

Lech shook his head. ‘I don’t know. He comes to us.’

“When do you expect him?’

‘At eight o’clock. He pays us tonight. He pays us every Friday.’

I bet he does, thought Charlotte. After collecting the wages from the site foreman he takes his cut and gives them the rest. She clenched her jaw tight enough to hurt, then snapped, ‘Right!’

Leaving the smell and the squalor behind she went from there to see Brookman in his office. It was five thirty and she found him putting on his bowler and picking up his briefcase. Mr Brookman kept very regular hours. He did not join the more menial staff who came in on Saturday mornings. He looked from her to the clock that clanked away the minutes by virtue of a brass pendulum hanging like a rigid tail from its case.

‘I hope this is important.’

Charlotte slammed her handbag down on his desk. ‘It’s about these men being exploited by this building company.’ Brookman concentrated on rolling up his paper and tucking it under his arm. ‘Have you any proof?’

‘I’ve seen where they’re living. It’s disgusting. Six men to one room, no decent washing facilities …’

‘I thought we were talking about the illegal employment of displaced persons not the overcrowding of tenements. Decent accommodation is scarce enough for our own people.’ Brookman made for the door.

Charlotte kept pace with his longer stride despite her high heels and the slimline skirt of her pale green costume, which was silk-lined and had a daringly high kick-pleat at the back. ‘Someone’s exploiting both their accommodation
and
their employment.’

‘So see the landlord.’ He reached for the door, his gaze fixed straight ahead of him.

‘I suppose I could. I’d love to give him a piece of my mind …’

Brookman laid his hand firmly on her arm. ‘Do bear in mind, Mrs Hennessey-White, that this country is desperate for workers and equally desperate for houses. A lot of our own people are also living in very bad conditions. Is it so much to expect that a bunch of foreigners are also living in dire conditions? Be patient, my dear lady.’

He smiled at her smugly, tapped his bowler and marched off. Charlotte stared after him completely lost for words. He had a point. She knew that. A lot of people were still living in less than perfect accommodation. But there was still no need to turn a blind eye. Standards had to be maintained and if the likes of Brookman weren’t going to do anything, then she’d do something herself.

She made her way to her car and drove back to the house where some very tired, very disillusioned men were sleeping six to a room. Tonight was the high spot of their week. It was payday and Mr O’Hara would be calling.

Lech Rostok opened the door of their lodgings. ‘I won’t come in,’ she said as the smell of decay and many men living without women to look after them seeped from the grimness within. ‘I’ll be back tonight. I want you to give me some sort of signal when O’Hara arrives, just so that we’re absolutely sure.’

‘Signal?’

‘Hang something out of the window the moment he leaves the building so I can have my car started and ready to follow him.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll be back around eight thirty.’

For the first time since she’d met them, Lech and the others who had gathered round him looked hopeful.

‘Thank you for helping us,’ said Lech. ‘Ivan and you. Thank you from all of us.’

Charlotte smiled nervously. ‘Something will be done. I promise.’

As she drove home she regretted making a promise. How easy it would be just to stay at home with David, listen to the radio or read a book. Tackling O’Hara could be dangerous. But it was too late. She had given her word and she had to stick to it.

Company was needed if she were going to be successful and, more to the point, unscathed from her dealings with Mr O’Hara. To that end Janet and Ivan went with her and parked outside the grim Edwardian building where a peeling sign said ‘Hartsbourne Hotel’.

Janet looked it over. ‘Is this it?’

‘Yes. Hardly hotel accommodation,’ said Charlotte disdainfully. ‘Six men to a room. And one bathroom between four rooms.’ She automatically wrinkled her nose. Smells, she noticed, stayed with her longer than the look or feel of a place.

‘Do we go in?’ Janet asked.

Charlotte shook her head. ‘We wait. I want to follow this man. Lech will give us a signal when he leaves and we can have the engine started and ready to go.’

Headlights shone brightly then were shut off as a sleek black car pulled into the kerb. One man got out. The driver stayed behind the steering wheel.

‘The man,’ said Ivan.

‘The man,’ Charlotte echoed, her gaze fixed on the strong figure making for the solid but scruffy door of the Hartsbourne Hotel.

O’Hara – if this was he – chose that moment to pull the brim of his trilby down over his eyes.

Charlotte sighed. ‘Blast! I wanted to see his face.’

Ivan leaned forward. “Wait for the signal, then get ready to look at him more carefully when he comes back out.’

‘I will,’ said Charlotte and found herself counting the minutes from the time he went in. She flattened herself against the steering wheel and looked up the building to the fourth floor. Ten minutes, she reckoned, and O’Hara would be ready to leave the smelly room. Sure enough someone waved a less than white vest out of the window.

Still with the brim of his hat pulled low over his face, O’Hara came out, crossed the pavement in two strides and got into the car.

Charlotte started the engine. ‘Let’s go.’

They drove along Coronation Road keeping up with the car, but not getting too close. Charlotte thanked all those gangster films David had taken her along to see before the war. Janet, however, had not seen them.