The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2) (10 page)

I remove the hat immediately.  ‘It scratches,’ I say.  I dread having to wear it anywhere, most of all Blountmere Street.  ‘Look at the price.  It’s much too expensive.  I’ll have to go without it.’

‘Of course you can’t go without it.  Aunt Min’s already given me the money.’

‘Will madam require tennis whites?’

‘Oh yes, the tennis outfit.’  Mum consults her list and hesitates.  ‘Actually, I think my daughter’s becoming a little tired with all this trying on of clothes.  We’ll come back later for the tennis and hockey outfits.’  Mum pulls her purse from her bag and counts out the pound notes.  She collects her change and guides me towards the lift where, gently stroking the hat box, she says, ‘I used to dream of having a hat like this.’

‘I’m sure you’ll look lovely in your school hat,’ Mrs Addington says that evening when I pop upstairs for my usual visit, and as she cuts out a dress on her kitchen table.

‘They won’t think so in Blountmere Street.’

‘Just tell ‘em to clear off or you’ll give ‘em what for.’  Angela takes Mrs Addingtons’ tape measure from her sewing box and hangs it round her neck as if it’s a necklace.

‘I’m not very good at telling people to clear off.’

‘Then I’ll tell ‘em for you.’  Angela seems to have forgotten that until recently, she’s been one of those who needed to be told to “clear off”. 

 ‘It’s only because they’re jealous they haven’t won a scholarship to that fancy college,’ she adds.

Guiding the conversation away from straw hats, scholarships and Riversham College, I say to Mrs Addington, ‘It’s good you’re able to do your sewing again.’

‘Now that I’ve begun, it’s fine, but I have to say I lost a bit of confidence after not having done it for a while.  And, of course, I’m feeling so much better, with the new medication the hospital’s put me on, and especially after the good news we’ve had today.’  Mrs Addington looks to Angela, urging her to tell me.

‘Would you believe that after what feels a blinkin’ century, we’ve managed to get hold of some snotty department that seems to know where Tony is.’

‘That’s marvellous.’

‘It certainly is.’ Mrs Addington seems to have shed several years.  ‘They’re going to send us a letter and explain everything.’

‘So it won’t be long before we get Tony back home and we’ll be arguing like we always did,’ Angela laughs. The atmosphere in the room has become lighter.

In Mum’s effort to stuff it into a drawer, her gold bracelet with a tiny diamond imbedded in every leaf clinks to the floor. 

‘You really should learn to knock, Paula.’  Mum bends and snatches it up.

‘That’s the bracelet Grandma left you.  Are you going to wear it?’  As far as I can remember, Mum’s only worn it once, and that was after we’d met Bill at the market in the snow, and she had put on her pink frock and looked like a film star.  Later, that same winter, when the snow meant Dad couldn’t work, Mum had held the bracelet in the palm of her hand in the way she is doing now.

‘Of course I’m not going to wear it,’ Mum snaps.  ‘I’ve better things to do than go around wearing useless jewellery.  It’s a total waste having it lying around in a drawer.’  Mum strokes one of its leaves.  ‘I was keeping it for you, but you’ll have enough money to buy half a dozen of these after you’ve been educated at Riversham College.’

‘But a bracelet I bought for myself wouldn’t be the same as Grandma’s.’

‘Be that as it may, Riversham is more important.  No daughter of mine is going there without everything she needs.  Anyway, it’s only a bracelet; a frivolity I can do without.  Give me a couple of days to sell it; then we’ll get the rest of your uniform.’  She replaces the bracelet in its box.  ‘Remember, this is between you and me.  Your father doesn’t need to know anything about it.’

I nod.  What will it matter if one more thing goes unmentioned.

‘When you go to Riversham,’ Mum begins.  These days most of her sentences begin the same way. ‘We’ll need to apply for a bus pass and you’ll have to get up a bit earlier, after all it’s a long way to travel.’

Dad comes in from the garden and settles himself in his armchair.  Then he unfolds
The Star
and holds it in front of him like a shield.

‘I was saying, when Paula goes to Riversham, Les, she’ll need a bus pass.’

The paper rustles but there might as well be no one behind it.

‘When she goes to Riversham, she’ll need to get up earlier as well.  It’ll take a good hour to get there and that’s without her walk to the bus stop.’

‘When she goes to Riversham,’ Mum begins again.

‘She won’t be going to Riversham,’ Dad neither moves his head, nor lowers the paper.

‘Not going to Riversham?’ Mum smiles as if she’s misheard him.  At any rate, she’s managed to get a response. 

‘I’ve told them she’ll be going to Grigham Road.’

‘But Grigham Road’s a secondary modern school.’

‘Grigham Road was good enough for me, and it’ll be good enough for her.’

‘But Paula’s won a scholarship.  You can’t take that opportunity from her.’ Mum’s voice is rising in panic.

‘I don’t care about any bleedin’ scholarship.  No daughter of mine’s getting above her station.  First it’s playing the piano, then it’s grammar school, now it’s a private college.  I ain’t having it, and that’s flat.  Anyway, have you asked her if she wants to go?  Of course you haven’t.  Too taken up with what
you
want.’

‘Please, Les, think about it.’

‘I’ve thought about it and I’m not changing my mind.  That’s all there is to it.  I don’t want to hear any more.’

Before I can stop her, Mum rushes across the room and tears the paper from Dad.  ‘You
will
hear about it.’  She is trembling and shrieking.  ‘You’ve never taken one bit of interest in Paula.  Not once have you been to her school or watched her do anything.  Now, without a word to us, you cancel her place at Riversham.  How dare you!’

Dad’s eyes are black, dangerous pinpricks piercing Mum.  ‘I dare all right. I dare!  You should have thought about all this when you went off with your fancy man in your new coat and took your precious daughter with you.  What example d’you call that, then?’  Dad’s face is a contorted mask.

‘I didn’t go off with anyone.  There’s only ever been you.  That’s the truth.  Anyway, I’ll go to the college and get them to take her back.  You’re not going to do this.’

‘I’ll do what I like, and you won’t stop me.  You think you’ve got a daughter with brains and a stupid old man, don’t you?   Well, I saw you get out of
his
motor.  I saw you, and I’ll tell you this much, no daughter of mine’s getting high and mighty ideas like her mother.  She’ll keep her place.  She’ll go to school where I send her.  Have you got that straight?’

PART TWO

Chapter Eleven

Mrs Addington sits at her sewing machine with a mounting heap of bunting at her feet.  ‘It’s to hang round our window and front door ready for the Coronation,’ she explains.  ‘We can’t be the only ones in the street not to have their place decorated.’

‘I’m surprised your Mum and Dad haven’t got their flat dolled up, yet.’  Angela picks up the flags and drapes them around herself.

‘They’ll be doing it soon,’ I reply.

Actually, Mum hasn’t said anything about it, which in normal circumstances would have been surprising, but since the Riversham blow-up, Mum seems to have lost interest in just about everything.

‘All this Coronation stuff makes you wish you had a tele.  Or at least know someone who does have one,’ Angela continues.

‘Yes, yes it does.  I’d love to see The Coronation.’

‘I suppose you hadn’t thought of going up there.’

‘D’you mean to London?’

‘Yeah.  We could go together.  You could pinch your Dad’s camping stools, the ones we used when we watched the ducks on the crater.  We’d need a couple of blankets and some food and stuff, ‘cos we’d probably have to camp there for a couple of days to get a good view.’  She pauses.  ‘You never know, Tony might be home.  Then he could come with us.’

Fancy being able to see The Queen in her gold carriage!  Not just a black and white picture.  And to think Angela Addington is actually asking me to go somewhere with her!  Best of all, Tony might come with us.  ‘I’ll ask Mum,’ I say.

‘What’s there to ask?’  For a moment Angela looks like the pre-orphanage Angela: sulky and rebellious.

‘I’m sure she’d love to come.’  It would do her good.  Get her away from everything, and help her to forget I wasn’t going to Riversham College.

‘Why d’you want to bring your mother with you?  We’re old enough to go on our own, aren’t we?’

‘Of course, we are.’  Just the same, I couldn’t see myself going without Mum.‘

‘When are you going to do those flags I asked you to make?’  Dad asks Mum as he fills his watering can ready to water the red, white and blue flower display in the window boxes he’s just made.  ‘And get the girl to go to Woolworths and buy some posters to stick in the window.  Got to keep up with the other bleeders around here.’

Mum shrugs, then says, ‘If it’s all right with
them
.’

I have no idea who
they
are.  It’s probably the Addingtons, and she wants our flat to look the same as theirs.  But she’s been talking about
they
and
them
quite a bit lately.

‘Angela wants me to go up to London with her to see The Coronation.  She wants us to camp up there for a couple of nights, so we’ll get a good place.’ I venture as Dad walks along the passage, spilling water from his watering can on to Mum’s floor, while Mum hovers behind him with a mop.

‘Please yourself,’ Mum replies.

‘But you’re going to come, aren’t you?’

‘Why should I?  You’re big and ugly enough to go on your own. 
They ...
’

But whatever Mum was going to say is interrupted by a scrabbling sound on our half-open front door. 

When I open the door fully, Mrs Kingsley from the bottom of Blountmere Street is standing on our doorstep.  She’s wearing a red, white and blue rosette pinned on her giant chest, and holding a clipboard.

‘Good evening,’ she says, looking past me to Dad and Mum standing in the passage. 

Dad snorts; he’s already suspicious of her, as he is of all our neighbours.  ‘What d’you want?’ he asks, without returning her greeting. 

‘You’ve probably heard that the residents of Blountmere Street have elected to have a street party to celebrate The Coronation.’  She sounds as if she’s rehearsed what she’s just said, like Mum had when we’d knocked on doors to drum up customers for Dad’s window cleaning business.

‘What’s it got to do with us?’  Dad demands in his most aggressive manner.

I’m glad that none of the people we canvassed to have their windows cleaned were as belligerent as Dad.

‘Well … um … I’m on the catering committee and we’re asking everyone in Blountmere Street if they can contribute something towards the tea party.  We’ll have tables set up right along the street …’

‘If you think we’ve got money to throw around on some fancy tea party …’

‘I’ll make some of my cheese straws and a few dozen butterfly cakes,’ Mum interrupts.  It’s the most animated she’s been in weeks.  ‘They went down a treat when we had the last street party after The War, although I had to save up a fair few coupons then.’

Mrs Kingsley begins writing on the paper attached to her clipboard.  Her writing is shaky as her chest quivers.  Before Dad can say anything, she crosses to the Addingtons’ front door and knocks.

Every day, I scan Blountmere Street for the car that will bring Tony home, but he hasn’t arrived back yet.  It would be perfect if he was with us for The Coronation.   If he’d been back, perhaps Angela, Tony and I would have gone to Woolworths together to buy things to decorate our flats, instead of only Angela and me. 

I get the posters of The Queen that Dad wants for our window.

‘I thought your old man doesn’t have any time for royalty,’ Angela says. 

‘This is different,’ I reply, without knowing why.

Angela buys three gold crowns and half a dozen Union Jack flags on sticks.  ‘It’s a good thing Mum’s back to her dress making, or we wouldn’t be able to afford stuff like this,’ Angela says, waving one of her flags.

Dad seems pleased enough with the posters - as pleased as he is with anything.  He pastes one picture in each of the segments of our front window and frames them with red, white and blue crepe paper.  ‘What d’you think?’ he asks me.

‘It looks smashing,’ I say, but Mum walks away.  Apparently,
they
don’t like it.

When Mum has disappeared indoors, Dad says casually.  ‘Won’t be long before you start Grigham Road.’

‘No.’

‘Look … um … you don’t have to go there.  I can put things right with that posh college or perhaps your school can get you fixed up with another grammar school.’

‘I don’t want to go to Riversham or a grammar school.  Grigham Road will be all right.’  Now that Angela and I are friends, Grigham Road would be fine.  And I expect that Tony will go there, too.  What could be better!

‘You sure about that?  I was probably a bit too … anyway, don’t say anything to your mother.  We don’t want to start her off again.’

When I ask Mum for enough food for a couple of days to camp out at The Coronation, she grumbles and at first I think I’m going to have to try and get the money out of my savings book to buy some for myself. 

‘All of this to see an ordinary woman,’ she says. 

‘But she’s not ordinary.  She’s The Queen,’ I reply.

‘She’s only human like the rest of us, that’s what
they
say.’

In the end, Mum relents and bakes for three days running.

On the day we go up to London, there is so much food on the table waiting for me to pack into my satchel I wonder how I’m going to take it all on the Tube, as well as everything else we have to carry.

I wish Tony was coming with us, because, apart from anything else, he’d be able to help us with everything.  But he’s still not back and Angela says her mother hasn’t received a letter, yet.

Blountmere Street must be the best decorated street in South London.  I hope Tony gets home to see it all.  Even Jack Moody’s draped a couple of flags round the pig bins in front of his yard and Old Boy Barker has painted “God Save The Queen” in red across his shop window and underneath, “Come in and have a Tizer to celebrate”.

‘It looks blinkin’ marvellous,’ Angela says, hoisting her rolled up blanket further up her shoulder and picking up two bulging shopping bags.  ‘Who’d have thought grey old Blountmere Street could look like this?’

Í agree.  It’s even better than Devon, and everyone we pass looks so happy.  All except Mum, that is, who, much to Angela’s annoyance has decided to come with us.  

“I can’t let you cart all this stuff there on your own.  I’ll have to come with you,” she’d said last night, without saying so much as a word to Dad.  Not that she’d spoken to Dad since he’d stopped me from going to Riversham.

“Just you wait a minute,” Dad had said, but Mum had simply replied, “
They
don’t want me to go either, but I’m going just the same,” and she’d swept from the kitchen.

By the time we get to London, Angela’s snitch with Mum has vanished.  Like me, she looks relieved to have someone else with us to help carry all the stuff.

‘Blimey, look at all these people here already.’  Angela surveys the crowds surging from the underground station and beginning to settle themselves on the pavements, ready for the long vigil.  ‘I told you, didn’t I, that Daphne Hawkens said we ought to go to Admiralty Arch, because  we’ll see the procession’s there three times?’

‘As long as it’s not too far.’  Mum looks weary and defeated, drab and brown against a sea of red, white and blue.  By the time we get to our destination and search until we find a place where we’ll at least be able to see some of the procession, Mum is trembling and muttering, ‘
They
said I shouldn’t have come.’

‘Of course, you should.  Here, unfold a camping stall and sit down, or someone’ll take our place.  Give your Mum a cup of tea from the flask, Paula.  That’ll buck her up.’  Angela shades her eyes with her hand and looks around her.  ‘Have you ever seen anything like this?  Look how everywhere’s decorated with pink and white roses.  It’s gorgeous, really gorgeous.’

All the time the crowd is growing and everyone is speaking to everyone else.  It’s as if we’ve all known each other forever.  The family on one side of us come from New Zealand where Fred and Lori live.  They speak with funny accents and tell us what a great place it is for young people like Angela and me.  Angela gives them one of her “looks” and says anywhere that far away gives her the willies.

The nights are cold and I’m grateful for the crowd to generate at least some heat.  Some people a couple of rows behind pass us forward the extra blankets they’re not using.  We sleep in spurts, and wake up stiff, but with mounting excitement.

On the day of The Coronation it’s wet and grey, but nothing dampens the atmosphere.  Guards resplendent in red, line the roads and in the distance we can hear the sound of bagpipes mingled with that of brass bands.  Everywhere, excitement is rising and we are all on our feet.  Even Mum is waving a flag and telling the woman next to her about our flat in Blountmere Street and the transformation her dear husband has made to it.

Then more guards, together with Beefeaters, come into view, followed by carriages, lots of them.  Inside one, is Miss Lorimore’s
Dear Mr Churchill
and I wish she was here to see him. 

But as the procession makes its way past and The Queen’s gold carriage comes into view, Mum plops on to her stall and buries her head in her hands.  ‘I shouldn’t be here.  I’m not good enough,’ she weeps through her fingers.

The tables covered in red, white and blue run the length of Blountmere Street and are laden with food. 

Mum seems to have recovered from her upset at The Coronation and scuttles out with her plates of cheese straws and butterfly cakes, but when she sees the length of the tables and everyone beginning to seat themselves, she hunches over and runs back into the house.  ‘
They
wouldn’t like this,’ she asserts, as she closes the door behind her.

Dad stands at our gate watching the huge tea party, but my appetite has disappeared along with Mum. 

‘Don’t take any notice of her.  She’ll come round,’ Dad says, but, even with Angela not being ashamed to sit next to me as she would once have been, the sunshine has seeped from my day. 

Tony and Mum, the two people I most want to be here, aren’t.