Coronation Wives: A heartbreaking historical saga from Lizzie Lane

1

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.

‘I know.’

Edna looked genuinely concerned. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’

Charlotte smiled in the way of one who is almost smug about such things. ‘One thing I have learned about Polly is that she’s a rough diamond on the surface but a chocolate eclair underneath. In short, she deals with her insecurities by insulting other people. You can’t hold it against her. Opportunities seem to have passed her by and at times she’s quite bitter about it.’

‘You mean like Carol’s father not coming back?’

‘That and Billy not sticking with Colin. Things seem to have gone downhill ever since.’

Edna looked proudly to where Colin was standing, talking loudly and surrounded by the people who worked for him. In the war years he’d made toys from bits of discarded wood while serving in the Pacific Ocean. Somehow he’d got them sent home and sold at a time when toys were impossible to get hold of. On coming back from the war minus his legs, he’d started it up as a full-time business.

‘Making toys here at home when imports were banned was an outstanding idea,’ said Charlotte.

Edna nodded. ‘And Billy was partly responsible for it being successful. Colin did try to get him to stay, but… you know what Billy’s like.’

‘He has a definite inclination for less legal ways of making money.’

Edna agreed. ‘A waste of time and effort seeing as it never seems to go quite right. He doesn’t even have the old van any more, just a bicycle pulling an orange box on wheels behind it. Goodness knows what would have happened if they’d had children.’

Charlotte flicked a well-manicured fingernail at a crumb that had stuck to her lipstick. ‘At least he regards Carol as his own. Not many men are magnanimous enough to accept the child of a previous liaison.’

Edna flinched, her half-finished drink pausing on the journey from table to mouth.

Charlotte saw the look and instantly regretted her comment. ‘Edna! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to resurrect old ghosts…’

Edna pushed a lock of plain brown hair away from her forehead and blinked nervously. She wasn’t always brave and never found it easy to express exactly how she felt, but she did so now.

‘There are times when I wish I’d been braver back then and stood up to my mother. But there – it’s all water under the bridge.’ She paused, suddenly aware of how tightly she was holding her glass.

‘And you’re happy?’ asked Charlotte, her grey eyes steadily scrutinizing Edna’s moon-shaped face and thinking how gentle she looked, how brave she really was.

Edna didn’t get a chance to answer. Colin chose that moment to come over and pat his wife on the head. Polly was right behind him, a glass of punch in each hand. She burst out laughing.

‘What you doin’, Colin? Just ’cos she got big brown eyes, don’t mean to say she’s a bloody pet spaniel, you know.’ Her speech was slurred.

Edna looked embarrassed for Colin as much as for herself. Charlotte looked amused but trusted to Colin taking care of himself.

‘My legs were casualties in the war.’

Polly was drunkenly adamant. ‘So?’

Some of Colin’s workforce chose that moment to crowd around him. ‘Sing one of them sea shanties,’ they shouted, ‘the one that’s as blue as the sea!’

Polly looked miffed. She did when she thought she was being sidelined and instantly targeted Charlotte. ‘Well?’

Charlotte lowered her voice. ‘It’s not easy to bend down and kiss one’s wife if one’s legs will not bend.’

‘Oh! I forgot.’

And that is Polly all over, thought Charlotte. She doesn’t think before she speaks.

Despite being pink-cheeked and unsteady on her feet, Polly downed both her drinks, then raised the empty glasses. ‘Anyone else for another?’

Again Edna and Charlotte declined. Before Polly had gone a few yards she was lost in the crowd that thronged around Colin and his rip-roaring voice.

‘Yes,’ Edna said suddenly. ‘Regarding your question, yes, I am happy. I have regrets, but they’re bearable. I can forgive myself, but I don’t think I will ever forgive my mother.’

‘Oh darling,’ said Charlotte. She patted Edna’s hand. ‘Don’t you think you should? After all, she is your mother.’

‘No. In fact, sometimes I hate her,’ she said quickly as though wanting to get the fact and the words out of her system. ‘What about you?’ she said suddenly. ‘Do you have any regrets?’

Charlotte had a serene way of smiling that masked her thoughts. She rarely gave much away, but on this occasion Edna had caught her unawares. She saw something flicker in Charlotte’s eyes as if a sad memory had swiftly crossed her mind.

Charlotte sighed and said, ‘Yes. I have regrets. But I’ll live with them.’

Edna opened her mouth to ask what they were, but Charlotte cut her short. ‘What a jolly crowd.’ She got up from the table as she said it, her gaze fixed on Colin and his workforce as if they were the most exotic people she’d ever seen. ‘Do you think we should join them?’ She had a fixed smile on her face, but overall, her expression was slightly stiff, like a crisp sugar coating hiding something softer, more vulnerable beneath.

Ask nothing, thought Edna, as she watched an oddly self-conscious Charlotte trying to look at ease as she joined Colin’s employees on their pre-Coronation booze-up. Whatever regrets Charlotte had, she most certainly did not want to talk about them.

2

Just as the grandfather clock in the hallway struck eight, Charlotte shut the study door behind her. She’d got up early to work on some reports regarding yet another batch of refugees from Poland, Hungary and Czechoslovakia. Just because the war was long over didn’t mean that everyone had gone home and picked up their lives where they’d left off. Europe still had problems.

Everything was filled out in triplicate, stapled into files, and photographs attached to forms. Charlotte was still helping people just as she always had, only now she worked for the Bureau for Displaced Persons, a busy branch of the Home Office.

The clattering of crockery and the slamming of the broom cupboard came from the kitchen, evidence enough that Mrs Grey had arrived and would prefer everyone to be out of her way before she started cleaning.

Charlotte caught a quick glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror. Just enough make-up to make her look sophisticated rather than dramatic, and just enough grey among the chestnut to look distinguished rather than old.

She was about to grab her handbag and leave before Mrs Grey found something to complain about, then wondered if her daughter, Janet, might want a lift to the hospital where she worked as a secretary.

She peered towards the kitchen area. The coast was clear. Quietly, she began to climb the stairs then suddenly thought how absurd it was. Mrs Grey works for you! You don’t have to creep around your own house. Taking a deep breath, in an act of sheer bravado, she purposely avoided the Persian rugs on the landing and walked on the lino. You’ll regret this, she told herself. She knocked on Janet’s door. There was no response.

‘Janet?’

Silence. She tried the handle. The door opened.

A draught of chill air hit her face. She could see that the bottom half of the bedroom window was open, the curtains billowing in a stiff breeze. Beyond the window came a strange cry not normally heard in Royal York Crescent at such an early hour. Pulling the curtains to one side, she poked her head out. A hunched figure pushed a handcart laden with rags, old fire irons and a small, galvanized boiler streaked with the dried soap of a thousand washdays. His cry of ‘Ole rags an’ ole ferrule’ was almost lost on the breeze. Ferrule, she knew, meant ferrous metal. His usual haul would be iron bedsteads, brass curtain rails with rings the size of saucers, and iron ranges torn from their moorings and replaced with gas stoves in a pleasant shade of cream.

The sound of footsteps made her turn round. Mrs Grey had discovered her and looked very put out. ‘I’m very vexed with Miss Janet, ma’am. Very vexed indeed.’

Inwardly Charlotte sighed. Outwardly she smiled and said cheerfully, ‘I didn’t hear her leave this morning. Did she have any breakfast?’

Mrs Grey’s chin seemed to curl upwards with indignation. ‘She crept out. She said she wasn’t creeping, but I know creeping when I see it. She was creeping.’

Charlotte did a quick mental calculation as a means of taking a broad perspective of the situation. Mrs Grey had used the same verb a number of times, four in fact, but had not answered Charlotte’s question so she repeated it. ‘And no breakfast?’

‘None! Not even a slice of toast with a scraping of butter! But that’s not why I’m vexed,’ she said. ‘Creeping out so no one could hear, I can cope with. Giving away good clothes to the rag and bone man is quite another matter.’

Charlotte attempted to help her strip the bedclothes, but got a disapproving glare for her effort. Mrs Grey liked to do things herself. Instead she asked, "Were they old clothes?’

‘Well, no, but that’s not the point…’

‘Did you want them for yourself? I mean, if you did I shall certainly ask Janet—’

‘Certainly not!’

Charlotte stood helplessly, waiting to be enlightened. Whatever it was, Mrs Grey looked more agitated than years back when she’d found out two rashers of bacon equalled one-ounce ration allowance for the week. She’d been devastated then and didn’t look much better now.

‘They weren’t ever so best, but good enough to wear out weeknights or shopping or to the pictures – that sort of thing.’ Charlotte went back to the window and glanced out again.

The rag and bone man was leaving the crescent, his handcart loaded.

‘Pictures?’ she said casually.

‘Yes,’ hissed Mrs Grey.

Charlotte got the gist of where this was going. For Mrs Grey, to be occupied in polishing, making beds and cooking, was akin to being divine. Pleasure, as opposed to work, was almost wicked.

Her voice dropped as low as when she went to confession up at St Patrick’s just off Dowry Square. ‘She wore them the other night when she went to the pictures.’

‘Goodness,’ said Charlotte wondering how best to make her escape.

Gripping the window sash with both hands, she slammed it shut. Mrs Grey nearly jumped out of her skin.

‘Perhaps they’d gone out of fashion,’ Charlotte suggested.

Mrs Grey looked extremely affronted. ‘Fashion is no reason for giving away good clothes.’

‘Never mind. I expect the rag and bone man will sell them cheaply to someone who really needs them,’ said Charlotte. ‘There are so many people out there with no clothes and not much of anything, Mrs Grey. And I have to get to my office and see what I can do for a small proportion of them.’

There wasn’t time to fuss. She left Mrs Grey in Janet’s bedroom where she appeared to be taking her annoyance out on the feather-filled pillows and the unyielding mattress.

The fact that Janet had given some old clothes away did not trouble her unduly. Perhaps she’d ripped them or perhaps they didn’t fit her any more. Her daughter must have had good reasons and she had no intention of questioning her motives.

The clock in the hall struck quarter past. Neatly attired in a smart green suit and black suede court shoes, she was ready to leave.

With the aid of the mirror in the hall, she fixed a trilby style hat on her head then headed for the front door. On reaching it, she called over her shoulder, ‘I must be off now, Mrs Grey. Would you take some tea into the doctor before he goes to surgery?’

Mrs Grey appeared at the top of the stairs with an armful of sheets destined for the laundry. ‘S’pose I will,’ she sniffed, then marched off along the landing.

Bridewell, the central police station, was not far from the Odeon Cinema and close to the Broadmead Shopping Centre, which was still being built.

A crime had been committed. It was only right that it should be reported. It didn’t occur to Janet as odd that she countenanced telling the police about it, but could not bring herself to tell her own mother. This thing had happened to her. It was an intimate thing, an invasion of her privacy, of her body. Telling her mother would intensify the effect of the violation. Reporting it to the police as a crime against her person was somehow different. They would go out, catch him and put him in prison and that would be the end of it. He would be locked away, just as the incident itself would be locked away in her mind.

Before leaving home, she had dressed in a brown checked suit matched with a pale orange silk blouse and low, sensible shoes. After surveying herself in the mirror, she changed her mind. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark suit. Dowdy, she thought, he’s making you dress dowdy.

No! She would not have that. Even now, just forty-eight hours after the event when despair had fought tooth and nail with determination, she would not let herself be intimidated by him. The brown suit came off. A red dress with a black patent belt and matching patent sandals made her feel much better. She found black button earrings and red lipstick too.

When she entered the police station, she willed her legs not to shake as she took her place in the queue behind two other people. Stiffening her calves and gritting her teeth, she forced herself to concentrate on those in front of her. Their problems might take your mind off yours, she told herself determinedly. The first in line was a man in a tan overcoat that smelt of mothballs. The collar and shoulders were liberally speckled with dandruff and, despite the muggy weather, his belt was tightly fastened giving him the look of a badly packaged parcel.

He was reporting the loss of his dog.

‘Black and white. Part collie. Part terrier. About this high.’ He bent down and indicated height from the floor with a flattened palm.

She saw the raised eyebrows of the uniformed policeman behind the desk as he twiddled his pencil and said with a hint of mockery, ‘We’ll circulate the details, sir. What did you say his name was?’

‘Gloria!’

The policeman, who she now saw from the stripes on his sleeve, was a sergeant, raised his eyes to heaven as if to ask relief from such suffering.

‘Her! Gloria!’

As the man left and the woman in front of her shuffled forward, Janet felt a great urge to use the lavatory – or take flight.

Feeling cold despite the full skirt and long sleeves of her dress, she wrapped her arms around herself, tilted her head back and looked at the ceiling. She didn’t want to be here. She wished with all her might that she could change things. If only she’d caught the bus instead of walking.

In her head she rehearsed the words she would say to the desk sergeant. He would probably get her tea and offer his sympathy. They might have a policewoman on duty. There were a few of them around nowadays. It might be easier talking to a woman, one who wouldn’t insist on telling her father, talking it through, analysing and dissecting every little detail until everything lay out on the table as opposed to being locked away in her mind. That’s what her mother would do: go over it again and again until it was all wrung from her like water from a dripping wet dress.

The waiting room was dull, nothing to look at except an ancient clock and a few wanted posters with curling corners. Yes, she was doing the right thing. It would be best for the police to break the news to her mother. She could imagine it now, her mother serenely sitting in her armchair with a pink and green chintz cover.

‘Madam, we are sorry to report…’ Who else would they tell? What about the newspapers?

Oh no, she couldn’t stand being front-page news in the Bristol Evening Post. For the first time since arriving at Bridewell, her courage began to fail her. What should she do? The woman in front of her was taking her time, relating in a very deep voice – the sort only acquired by smoking forty a day – of how some man had taken her purse when she’d set it down on a Woolworths counter in order to purchase a doll for her granddaughter.

Janet looked down at the floor and caught a glimpse of the woman’s feet. She was wearing men’s black dancing pumps. They looked too small, the aged black leather digging into the woman’s thick-set ankles.

The minute hand on the wall clock jerked forward. Janet gave herself a deadline. One more minute. If the woman went on for just one more minute… Two, then three went by. So much for setting herself a limit.

‘Next!’

At last she was face to face with a representative of the local constabulary. His bulk filled the square opening above the desk. The opening was set in glass partitioning, a film of old dirt and the curling posters she’d observed earlier, obliterating clear observation of the room beyond the counter. Janet opened her mouth to speak, but her tongue seemed to shrivel up in her mouth.

‘Well, me dear?’

Watery blue eyes fixed on hers. She glanced over her shoulder. How many more were in the queue and likely to listen to what she had to say? There was no one. She swallowed hard. ‘A man attacked me.’

He immediately swapped his pencil for a pen. ‘Name?’

‘I don’t know his name.’

The policeman sighed impatiently. ‘Your name, young lady!’

She fiddled nervously with her handbag. It was black patent like her belt and sandals. The sweat from her hands had left moist patterns of palm and fingers all over it.

She cleared her throat. ‘Janet Hennessey-White.’

After dipping the pen into an inkwell and shaking off the residue he began to scratch her name in his ledger.

‘Is that your full name?’

‘Well no, it’s actually Janet Abigail Hennessey-White, and this man—’

‘How do you spell that?’

She told him. The tip of his tongue wavered at the side of his mouth as he wrote her name. She couldn’t believe it. Was he really more interested in getting her name right than finding her attacker?

‘Address?’

A draught of air came into the waiting room as the door to the street opened behind her. Nervously Janet glanced over her shoulder again.

A uniformed constable smiled and nodded at her then opened another door and disappeared.

Thank you.

The sergeant scratched her address line by line. Janet bit her bottom lip as her eyes followed the slow progress of the pen to inkwell and back to the ledger. Her nerve was slipping and if someone did come in, she might lose it completely. She had to hurry him up.

‘My telephone number is—’

His response was immediate, like a bird of prey suddenly spotting an easy meal. ‘We don’t need that. Not everyone has got a telephone, you know. Only them that can afford it.’

Janet hugged her handbag. ‘I only thought—’

He stretched to his full height – far too tall for the opening through which he was speaking. He appeared cut off at the neck. ‘You don’t need to think, miss. That’s what we’re here for. You’ve lost something or had something stolen, and we know how to go about looking for it. Now!’ he said, sliding his wooden handled pen into a groove in the counter. ‘Let me guess. You’ve lost something, though not your handbag I see.’ He pointed to the black patent bag that was looking positively dull with perspiration.

‘I’ve already told you. A man attacked me.’

‘Oh yes.’ He sounded unconvinced and eyed her cautiously. Janet was disappointed. Somehow she had expected him to spring into action, take quick notes and order a bevy of police constables to scour the streets – and that before she had given a description of either the man or what had happened. The rest of her words came tumbling out.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

Please, don’t let anyone come in. Please don’t let anyone hear this.

At last she found her voice. ‘A man dragged me onto the waste land and then he…’ She fought to say the word, half-hoping that he would say it for her. He did not. He was unsmiling.

She managed to blurt it out. ‘He raped me!’

Sounds from the world outside, traffic, footsteps and the cry of ‘Evening World and Evening Post’ came in with new arrivals. She was vaguely aware of a brightly coloured dress, a man smelling of pipe tobacco and stale sweat. They took their place in the queue behind her. The door opened again. Someone else joined the queue, then another, and another. The place was filling up.

The sergeant glanced at the door each time it opened before turning his attention back to her. ‘So where and when did this alleged offence happen?’ He stressed the word ‘alleged’, so it sounded almost criminal.

‘On Friday night when I left the Odeon. I decided to cut up through—’

‘What time was this?’

Having caught the gist of the sergeant’s questioning, the newly arrived were silent. She could feel them watching her and passing instant judgement based on what the policeman was saying.

She couldn’t stop her voice from shaking. ‘After ten – about ten thirty.’

The sergeant let out a heavy, knowing sigh. ‘Right! It was after ten, getting dark and you had decided to walk home alone and a man forced his attentions on you in a sexual manner. Don’t you think you were asking for it?’

He had not lowered his voice. Janet felt the colour racing up her neck and onto her cheeks. She could feel the gazes of those behind her piercing into her back.

‘No!’

‘An old boyfriend, was it?’

‘No! Of course it wasn’t!’

Her face was on fire. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry, but most of all she wanted to get out of here, away from his accusations and those of the people standing in the queue.

His expression smug, he leaned on the counter, brawny hands clasped before him. He eyed her up and down as though wearing red and being attractive was a far bigger crime than the one she was reporting.

‘Girls like you ruin a lot of blokes’ lives, so before you go making accusations I suggest you consider your own actions very carefully indeed. You were walking home in the dark all alone. What were you hoping for?’

She couldn’t believe what he was insinuating. ‘I’m not a tart!’

Angry tears filled her eyes. If she didn’t get out of here they’d soon be running down her cheeks. She mustn’t let it happen.

A pin could have dropped and sounded like an atomic bomb in that dingy room. Ears were straining, eyes watching with avid interest. The Bristol Old Vic would be hard pushed to present something as dramatic as this.

The sergeant smiled, as much in response to the avid attention of his audience as for her benefit. ‘Perhaps not, but no respectable woman should be out alone after ten o’clock at night. Now go home, forget what happened and be a good girl in future.’

Her patience snapped and she stamped her foot. ‘How dare you! I’ll have you know that my parents have influence in very high places.’

The sergeant, his features leaden, slammed his ledger shut. ‘I don’t care who they are or where you’re from. High class you may be, but there’s an old saying… the colonel’s lady and Rosie O’Grady are sisters under the skin…’

Janet was speechless. She turned and fled.

Outside, fresh wet air slapped against her hot face. An overcast sky had burst with rain and water dripped from her hair, down her face, from her nose and trickled down her neck. Pavements empty of pedestrians shone with water. Such was her anger that she never thought to question where everyone was. She simply ran through the downpour, oblivious to the headscarves and umbrellas barricading shop doorways.

Her headlong flight might have continued except that a small figure bounced out of the entrance to the Arcade, an enclosed avenue of semi-derelict shops that connected one street with another. It provided a little shelter even though most of its roof was missing.

The figure bumped into her and blocked her path. ‘Boo!’ She spun, holding the small shoulders of the interceptor until they both came to a standstill. Rain and tears blurred her vision, but the smiling face was familiar.

‘Janet! Janet! We’ve been to see the Coronation Clock. It’s got lots of colours and wooden people walking around when it strikes the time.’

Susan, one of Edna’s children, beamed up at her. ‘Come on. We’ve saved a place for you.’

Janet allowed herself to be dragged towards the crowd of sheltering shoppers. She saw Edna waving. ‘Over here,’ she shouted.

Edna’s face was shiny with rain, her cheeks were pink, and her eyes sparkled. There was not a trace of make-up. ‘What a downpour!’

She wore a silk headscarf which Janet recognized as being a present from her mother many Christmases ago. Goodness, but Edna really knew how to make things do: Typical of that generation; the war had made people more careful.

‘I’m pretty wet already,’ Janet said almost apologetically.

‘Pretty wet? Is that what you call it? Yer own mother wouldn’t recognize you.’ Polly had been hard to spot, sandwiched as she was between the pushchair in which reposed Edna’s youngest and a lady with large bosoms wearing a man’s raincoat and a checked cap. As usual Polly was dressed in black and white. It was an odd thought at an odd time, but Janet found herself presuming her underwear to be white. Black wasn’t so much decadent as almost unavailable and Polly never wore any other colours than black and white.

‘Stand in a bit. You’re still getting wet,’ said Edna pulling her close just as if she were one of her children. ‘Goodness, I can feel you shivering. How about a coffee or a cup of tea in Carwardines once it’s dried up?’

Under the circumstances, Janet wasn’t sure that she wanted company. ‘I don’t really—’

Polly cut her short. ‘Good idea.’

‘Can I have a cocoa?’ asked Susan who was proudly hanging onto Janet’s hand as if she were a treasured find.

Edna said she could and asked her son, Peter, if he too wanted cocoa or lemonade. He slapped his side as he thought about it. At the same time he stamped his feet, not angrily, but as though he was getting ready to run.

‘You can bring Trigger,’ Edna added with a brief pat of his shoulder, ‘but he has to be quiet. Carwardines only let in well-behaved horses.’

She gave Janet a wink. Strange how it made Janet feel that little bit better, as though anything could be got over if you really tried. Look at Edna’s husband: no legs, but still he coped. Despite the dreadfulness of her day, Janet felt less ashamed, less indignant. Normal people living normal lives who knew nothing of what she had been through surrounded her. She was still Janet as they’d always known her.

Suddenly the crowd began to disperse and Susan began to dance. ‘It’s stopped raining! It’s stopped raining!’ She tugged Janet out of the Arcade entrance. At the same time Peter spurred on his invisible mount and let out a loud neigh of appreciation. ‘High spirits,’ said Edna with a mix of pride and embarrassment, and when Janet didn’t respond she touched her arm. ‘Are you all right?’

There was genuine concern in her face and, for a solitary second, Janet had a strong urge to tell her what had happened on Friday night and where she’d been today.

Just when the urge was at its strongest, Susan piped up, ‘We’ve left Aunty Polly behind.’

Everyone gathered in a huddle and looked around. ‘Window shopping, I expect,’ said Edna. Janet stretched her neck and studied a spot in front of a window that had been hidden by the crowd sheltering from the rain.

‘There,’ she said pointing.

‘Not that again,’ Edna muttered.

Janet didn’t question to what she was referring. Her own problems pressed too heavily so she only glanced very briefly in Polly’s direction.

Sharply attractive in her black and white flowered dress, Polly was standing quite still, her attention fixed on a poster that seemed mostly to consist of blue sky and an arched iron bridge crossing an equally blue bay. Edna called out to her. ‘Polly?’

Polly seemed oblivious to everything except the poster. Edna called again. This time Polly seemed to hear. It was as if someone had turned a large key to get her going again. Despite her age – mid-thirties – Polly maintained a girlish exuberance, especially now with her hair tangled to curls by the rain.

She seemed to bounce rather than walk towards them and her smile stretched from ear to ear. ‘Did you know it’s only ten pounds to go to Australia?’

‘Yes, I did know that,’ snapped Edna and turned away abruptly. ‘Let’s get to Carwardines.’ She began to push her way through the crowds, Janet following right behind, pulled along by Susan.

‘You didn’t tell me!’ Polly grumbled as she trailed along behind.

‘Why should I?’

Polly sounded almost angry. ‘Why should you? You know damn well why! You know I’ve been wanting to leave this country for years.’

Although she wasn’t quite sure of the significance of the conversation, Janet said, ‘There are times when I’d like to fly away and never come back.’

‘Your mother wouldn’t like it,’ said Edna, her knuckles white with the force of her grip on the pushchair.

Janet’s laugh was like a wooden spoon banging around the inside of a saucepan. ‘I doubt whether she’d notice. She leads a busy life helping other people. We’ve got nothing in common.’

Edna turned sharply to her, a shocked expression on her face. ‘That’s not true. Your mother is the most caring person I know and I can’t believe that you’re not as good-hearted as she is. Susan wouldn’t have run out to fetch you if you weren’t. Children are very knowing.’

Janet said nothing, but undamped a splat of wet hair from her cheek and brushed it back.

‘Aunty Polly’s gone again,’ said a serious Susan in a matter of fact voice.

Edna had exasperation written all over her face. ‘She’s gone back to look at that poster. This could be serious.’

Janet considered asking why Edna looked worried, but changed her mind. Polly was old enough to look after herself. And anyway, she had her own problems, and, as if on cue, she was reminded of them.

A middle-aged couple just two feet away had stopped and were eyeing her with curious discernment. ‘It’s her!’ Their voices were full of contempt.

Her? Did they mean her? Had she seen them somewhere before? Their clothes at least looked vaguely familiar. The woman wore a flowered dress with a dull white collar. The man wore an old-fashioned pinstripe suit with baggy trousers.

‘Hussy!’ said the woman, her thin lips pursed above a pointed chin.

‘Out at all hours, leading decent men astray,’ hissed the man through a grey moustache and yellow teeth.

Janet felt the colour draining from her face. It was like remembering a bad dream. These people were standing behind her in the police station. They had heard everything. But she wasn’t going to let them treat her like this.

‘You stupid, stupid people!’ she shouted. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Passing shoppers stopped and stared. Even the man selling newspapers from a stand paused and looked in her direction, perhaps considering her a potential threat to his own pitch.

Edna grabbed her arm. ‘Janet! What is it?’

‘They’re calling me names.’ Janet couldn’t stop shaking. Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘It’s not true! I didn’t encourage him. I told the policeman that. I didn’t even know him.’

The couple melted into the crowd.

Edna’s voice was soft and soothing. ‘Oh, Janet!’ She placed her arm around Janet’s shoulders.

Janet felt strangely comforted. Edna wasn’t asking her what had happened. The look in her eyes said it all. There was no need for details. There was only comfort. No wonder she was so good with children.

‘It was dark. I think he was foreign,’ she said in a small voice and looked round to see where Polly was.

Realizing her reason for doing so, Edna said, ‘Relax. She’s still looking at that poster about Australia.’

Janet nodded appreciatively. She didn’t want Polly, Dorothea or her mother to hear her secret. It was all too painful. Edna squeezed her shoulder. Her voice was gentle. ‘You need to talk to someone. I suppose you don’t want to talk to your mother?’

Janet shook her head.

Edna pressed a clean handkerchief into her hand. ‘I could never talk to mine – though I have to say that Charlotte is a lot easier to get on with than my mother ever was.’

‘I just want someone to listen, not to tell me what to do.’

‘I understand. Dry your tears. I also take it you don’t want Polly to know.’

‘I’d rather she didn’t.’

‘Then she won’t.’

Polly chose that exact moment to get back. ‘What’s up with her?’ she said, indicating Janet with a jutting of her chin.

‘Just a headache,’ said Edna.

‘Right,’ said Polly and didn’t really seem to care whether it was the truth or not.

Her gaze kept wandering back to the window and the poster of Sydney Harbour.

Edna was worried. Marriage to Billy had never quite suited Polly. Perish the thought, but she’d actually enjoyed the war and although at first it had seemed