Coronation Day

KAY BRELLEND

Coronation Day

MAH and GCH, much love to you both and wishing you well, now and always.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

Summer 1939: Park Road Pool, Hornsey

‘Leave her alone, Vic, fer Gawd’s sake. You make her blub again and we’ll all get chucked out. Lifeguard’s got his eye on us.’ Christopher Wild jerked his head towards a tanned, brawny fellow, garbed in swimming trunks. From his vantage point, seated at the top of an A-frame ladder, the lifeguard had a clear view over the lido and at present had his stern expression fixed on them.

Vic shrugged off the warning, intent on swaggering over to the group of schoolgirls to continue teasing them. Christopher grabbed his pal’s arm and yanked him back. The youngest girl was crying, and being comforted by her bathing-costumed friends. At intervals the group was throwing dirty looks at the party of youths.

‘Only having a bit of a lark with her, bleedin’ cry baby she is.’

‘Ain’t a lark if she’s hurt, is it?’ Christopher pointed out and shoved Vic Wilson down onto the grass next to some of their pals. He’d just prevented him again trying to creep up behind Grace Coleman to nudge her into the deep end of the pool. The first time he’d done it Vic had given the lame excuse that he was teaching her to swim. Christopher thought Vic a good pal on the whole, but knew he could be spiteful, and stupid too.

Christopher sat down next to Vic. Most of the members of their little gang were lying back, basking in the July sun’s warmth. Christopher remained seated on the parched grass with his arms clasped around his raised knees. He subtly watched the group of girls and, in particular, Grace who was knuckling her bloodshot eyes and pushing rats’ tails of drenched hair back from her forehead. She’d managed to hang onto the side of the pool after Vic had given her a hefty bump, sending her off balance and into the water. Although she’d disappeared beneath the surface, her friends had hauled her out almost immediately.

Grace Coleman was a skinny little thing with long fair hair. She was usually quite loud and confident and was popular too. In other respects, she was quite sporty, and could outrun all the boys in kiss chase. But she couldn’t swim.

The Colemans lived in the next street to Christopher in Islington and their families knew each other well. For a reason he couldn’t fathom, he’d always quite liked her. At ten years old she was two years younger than he was, and in Christopher’s opinion Vic Wilson was a prat for tormenting her so he could show off.

Noticing the direction of his friend’s gaze Vic said, ‘Dunno why she comes here if she don’t like getting wet.’

‘She don’t mind getting wet, it’s drowning she ain’t keen on.’

‘I’m getting a drink.’ Bill Bright, one of Christopher’s other friends, got up and strolled off in his swimming trunks in the direction of the cafeteria.

‘Get us one ’n’ all,’ Vic called after him.

‘Give us the money then,’ Bill sent back over a shoulder.

‘Give it yer when you get back.’ Vic grinned cheekily.

Bill showed him two fingers and put on a swagger as he came level with the group of girls.

Christopher noticed that Grace was about to be left on her own again. Now she’d quietened down, her friends were jumping back into the pool, intent on enjoying themselves. He levered himself up and went over to sit down on the grass beside her.

‘You alright?’

She nodded and sniffed. Her red-rimmed eyes narrowed on Vic, who was watching them. ‘If he tries to push me in again I’m gonna tell on him. Me dad’ll give him such a hiding.’

‘He’s just an idiot. Don’t mind him.’ Christopher thought it was unlikely that old man Coleman would stir himself enough to do any such thing. When Wilf Coleman wasn’t working in a meat factory he spent his time slouched in the betting shop or in the pub.

‘You’re a good swimmer,’ Grace said enviously. ‘I was watching you earlier diving off the board.’

‘Got taught when I was little by me dad.’

‘Bet he didn’t push you in. My dad did. When we went on holiday to Clacton he tried teaching me to swim like Vic just did. He got annoyed and pushed me off the edge of the pool ’cos I wouldn’t get in. Was only the shallow end though,’ she added in mitigation.

‘S’pose me dad might have done that to me.’ Christopher narrowed his eyes at her. ‘You ought to learn, y’know, ’cos if you don’t you’ll get teased every time you come here with yer friends. Can’t just hang about on the side, can you?’ He nodded at the girls frolicking in the pool. ‘None of them offered to hold your chin so’s you can do a few strokes to and fro?’

She nodded. ‘Yeah, they have. I just don’t like it though. Don’t like feeling the water stinging me nose and me eyes.’

‘Gotta hold yer breath and keep yer eyes shut,’ he explained. ‘Soon as yer head’s up and out, blink and take a big breath.’

‘’S’alright fer you to say.’

‘I’ll show you if you like.’

‘He’s sent you over to try and push me in, hasn’t he!’ Grace glared at Christopher and shuffled away on her skinny posterior.

‘Please yourself …’ Christopher sighed and got up.

A moment later Grace was at his side, her small hands wringing water from her long hair. ‘You could show me another time … when they’re not about … they’ll just laugh.’ Her eyes slid sideways towards the watching youths.

‘Might not be coming again for a while.’ Christopher grimaced and stepped away.

‘Alright … show me …’ Grace caught at his hand to stop him leaving. ‘But round the other side, away from them.’

Christopher disentangled his fingers from hers and ambled around the perimeter of the pool with Grace traipsing in his wake. He stopped by an area of water that wasn’t quite as populated.

Grace nervously assessed the rocking blue waves. ‘How deep is it?’

‘Come to about the top of your head. Don’t worry, I’ll hold you up, won’t let go … honest. Then you’ve just got to do a bit of doggie paddle towards the shallow end and you’ll be able to stand up … or carry on if you like.’

Grace took a deep breath, trudging forward.

‘Ready?’ he said, standing by her side at the edge of the pool.

He got no reply. He cast a look down on her wet head. ‘Once you’ve done it, nobody’s gonna tease you no more.’

She nodded her agreement. She could see her friends larking about. They hadn’t even noticed she’d moved away and was about to make a momentous effort.

‘Ready?’ Christopher asked again.

She nodded, sucked in a shaky breath and in the split second he moved she grabbed at one of his hands, launching herself forward with him.

CHAPTER ONE

February 1952

‘Touch any of them tools again and it’ll be the last thing you ever do, you thievin’ toerag.’

Christopher Wild stuck a threatening finger close to the man’s bristly chin, his face contorted into a savage mask. A moment ago he’d been knocking down a partition wall inside a derelict property when, from the corner of an eye, he’d seen a suspicious movement through a gaping hole in brickwork where a window frame had once been.

‘Wasn’t stealin’, was I now,’ the fellow muttered in his guttural Irish accent. ‘Was just gonna borrer the pick for a little while, that’s all it was …’ He propped the pick back against the front wall of the house, next to a fourteen-pound hammer, then stuffed his hands into his donkey-jacket pockets. He was a large individual with wildly unkempt black hair and a ruddy complexion.

‘Yeah, ’course … just gonna borrow it, weren’t yer …’ Christopher mimicked sarcastically. He grabbed several implements by their battered wooden handles and sent them hurtling, one after the other, along the hallway of the house where they thudded against bare boards. ‘Piss off and borrow stuff off yer mates.’ Christopher flicked his head at the contingent of navvies working a distance away along the street. Some of them had heard what was going on and had come out of the tenement to watch. A couple started to approach.

The Irishman spread calloused hands, gesturing for a truce as he retreated. Despite his attempt at nonchalance his small eyes were shifting to and fro. Christopher knew if the navvy had managed to filch the pick, Wild Brothers Builders would never have seen it again … not without a fight anyhow. And they’d had one of those earlier in the week when a couple of shovels went missing. The week before that there had been an almighty bust-up when his colleague, Bill, got a tooth smashed in a fight. A new high-reach ladder had disappeared from where it had been tied on the top of one of their vans. Of course, the pikeys had denied all knowledge of any of it, they always did, but now Christopher had caught one of them red-handed he knew that every accusation, every punch landed, had been well deserved.

‘What’s up?’

‘Nuthin’ I can’t handle,’ Christopher mumbled to a middle-aged man who’d sprinted up to him, looking agitated.

Stephen Wild, Christopher’s father, had been sitting in one of the vehicles scribbling with a pencil in his notebook when he’d noticed a confrontation between his son and one of Declan O’Connor’s crew. He’d stuck the pencil behind his ear, dropped the ledger, and sprung immediately from the Bedford van to rush over. He was well aware that things could turn very nasty at any time.

The Irishman started to amble away and Christopher put a hand on his father’s shoulder and steered him over the threshold of the door-less house. He didn’t want another fight erupting so soon after the last. And thankfully they hadn’t lost any more equipment.

Christopher worked for his uncle’s construction firm as a foreman when his father wasn’t about to take charge. Although it was called Wild Brothers, his father was more or less just another employee and his uncle Rob was the guvnor. Rob was certainly the one with the money and the business nous. Stephen Wild was the brawn, or he had been in his younger years when he’d had better health and vigour. Now it was Christopher’s turn to take on the brunt of the donkeywork, and to chivvy the lads into action so contracts were finished on time.

Since tempers had started running high due to the Irish crew muscling in on their territory Wild Brothers’ few employees seemed to be working less and moaning more. Stephen took a glance along the street and noticed that their rivals were carrying on a heated discussion, with much gesticulating.

Alert to trouble brewing, Christopher’s colleagues started emerging from the bowels of the derelict tenement they’d been demolishing in Whadcoat Street. The men were carrying the tools they’d been using. Hammers and jemmies were swinging in fists as they approached to stand about their boss in a show of solidarity.

‘Nuthin’ goin’ on here. Get back about yer work,’ Christopher told them. They remained where they were, covered in brick dust, looking belligerent and ready to get stuck in.

‘They on the thieve again?’ Vic Wilson demanded indignantly, glaring along the street.

‘They’re having a go at it. Keep stuff inside the house, or locked in the vans.’

‘Fuckin’ Micks,’ Bill Bright said, flattening his lips against the gap in his teeth. ‘Should’ve put me ’ammer over that pikey’s crust earlier in the week.’

‘Yeah … then we’ll all be out of work, and sitting in the nick, won’t we,’ Christopher stated dryly. ‘Just what they want, ain’t it? Us doing something stupid so they can have the work all to themselves.’

‘We let ’em push us around then, do we?’ Ted Potts suggested sarcastically.

‘Get back to work,’ Christopher snapped impatiently.

He watched his crew peel off one by one and go back inside the property. He waited until banging and crashing resumed before he turned to his father.

‘Ted’s got a point,’ Stephen Wild muttered, squinting at the group of labourers along the road. ‘Declan O’Connor’ll be laughing his bollocks off alright if we let ’em keep getting away with it.’

Declan was the Paddies’ guvnor and would turn up about once a day to check on his crew and taunt Wild Brothers’ boys with a few yelled insults.

Most of the navvies had gone about their business. But a couple were still leaning on shovels, chin-wagging, and throwing dirty looks their way.

‘A real bust-up’s brewing and it’d be as well to get this out of the way now rather than later when O’Connor turns up.’ Stevie jutted his chin belligerently.

Christopher turned a jaundiced eye on his father. He was a reasonably fit man for his forty-five years, but in no shape to be taking on burly Irish navvies in a fistfight … or worse. If things kicked off it might not just be punches doing damage. Bill’s threat to use a hammer had been in retaliation to O’Connor swinging a shovel at his head two weeks ago. Luckily it had missed or he wouldn’t have ended up with just a broken tooth and bruises. But things were getting serious. The fact that O’Connor’s gang took a dinner break in the pub didn’t help. When they ambled back in the afternoon a couple of them were always two parts pissed and up for a brawl – even amongst themselves.

Christopher was aware his uncle Robert had fingers in many other pies and might not be too bothered about the winding-up of his building concern. But if the pikeys took over in the street, the rest of them would suffer. A few other piddling contracts might come their way and keep him and his dad employed, but Vic, Bill and Ted would have to go.

‘Just need to keep calm,’ Christopher said. He quirked a rueful smile. ‘Keep calm and carry on …’ He quoted a wartime motto.

‘They’d better stay on home ground then. The boys are getting to the end of their tethers. And so am I …’ Stephen came to an abrupt halt, squinting at a house some distance away. Despite demolition work having started at one end of the long road, some families still lived in houses in Whadcoat Street.

It was February and bitterly cold but an elderly woman had just shoved up her sash window and stuck her head out to bawl something at them.

‘Aunt Matilda’s after you by the looks of things,’ Christopher told his father as he noticed his great-aunt waving to gain their attention. ‘You go and see what she wants; I’ll make sure everything’s under control here.’

Christopher was glad when his father immediately went loping off along the road. He didn’t want him getting geed up by the lads into confronting the pikeys. Christopher watched him come to a halt and angle his face up towards Matilda.

When his father reappeared Christopher was attacking the splintered remains of a doorframe with a hammer. Something about his father’s shocked expression made him drop the tool to the ground.

‘King’s dead.’

‘Eh?’

‘Matilda just said it come over on the Home Service. King George has died.’

‘Eh? What’s that?’

Vic Wilson had appeared, wiping his grimy face with a handkerchief.

‘Me aunt’s just told us that the king’s died.’

Bill and Ted trooped into the front room of the house.

‘What’s that?’ Bill asked, frowning.

‘King George has died …’ Stephen repeated croakily, blinking rapidly. He looked close to tears.

Into the stunned silence came Vic Wilson’s voice. ‘Weren’t unexpected I suppose.’ He grimaced. ‘Smoked like a chimney, didn’t he?’

‘Poor sod might not’ve needed ’em so much if his brother’d done his duty, ’stead of running off with that bloody American woman,’ Stephen barked angrily. ‘He weren’t trained up for the job, was he.’ He gestured with a hand as he sank down to his haunches then collapsed to sit on the bare boards. ‘Just got chucked in at the deep end by that selfish git. Edward was the one brought up for it from when he was a kid and got taught all the right stuff. George just had to pick it up as he went along.’ Stephen came to a sudden halt, his face florid from his impassioned outburst. His head dropped forward and his fingers sank into his hair. He wasn’t a royalist by any means but, like most Londoners, Stephen Wild had nothing but praise and respect for King George and Queen Elizabeth. They’d braved the dangers of the Luftwaffe bombings on the city along with everybody else instead of scurrying off to the comfort and protection of a mansion in the countryside.

Christopher perched on an upturned crate and shook his head. He agreed wholeheartedly with what his father had said. ‘Yeah, good bloke he was. Did us proud during the war, considering he weren’t really cut out fer the job. Queen Elizabeth too. She was a diamond.’

‘He was only about ten years older’n me.’ Stephen produced a packet of Weights and immediately took one out then threw the packet for Christopher to catch it.

‘Makes yer think, don’t it. Me dad’s comin’ up to sixty-five …’ Vic sat on the floor next to Stephen and got out his own cigarettes.

Bill squatted down too and fished in Vic’s packet of Weights when it was offered, then lobbed it towards Ted.

As a melancholy silence descended on the room Christopher drew smoke deep into his lungs then rested his head in his cupped hands.

‘Can’t believe it, y’know …’ The woman’s voice had come from the doorway and jerked them all to attention. ‘He was only fifty-six. Weren’t an old man at all, was he?’

‘Were a sick man though, Aunt Tilly, weren’t he,’ Christopher said. ‘S’pose we all knew fer a while it might be coming.’ He stood up. ‘Any more news come over on the wireless? Was it a heart attack took him in the end?’

Matilda came gingerly further into the debris-strewn property. ‘Don’t know … not said.’ She shook her grey head, her wrinkled complexion creasing in a frown. She was seventy-one years old yet, considering what she’d been through in her life, in robust condition. ‘BBC has cancelled all the programmes. Just gonna be sad music and news broadcasts. Bound to come out later today what caused it.’

‘Won’t get nuthin’ done now. Everything’ll be closing up out o’ respect.’ Billy nodded sombrely.

‘Right ’n’ all!’ Stephen said forcefully, shoving himself to his feet. ‘Ain’t a man anywhere deservin’ of more respect than him.’

‘We off home then?’ Ted asked optimistically.

‘Yeah, go on, get going,’ Stephen said. There was plenty of work left to do, and a good few hours in which to do it, but nobody had the heart now to get stuck in.

‘Bet them Irish bastards don’t show a bit o’ respect and knock off early,’ Vic said. He unhooked his jacket from the back of the door and shrugged it on over his overalls.

‘Most Paddies can’t stand the English at the best of times,’ Bill interjected sourly. ‘Probably be doin’ a jig, they will.’

‘Can’t tar ’em all with the same brush.’ Matilda wagged a finger. ‘The Irish couple wot’s just moved in along the road don’t seem bad people. Spoke to the woman the other day when she was coming out of Smithie’s shop and she was as polite as yer like. Introduced herself straight off. Noreen Murphy’s her name and she said her husband’s called Kieran.’

‘Well, I don’t reckon they should have camped in that dump in the first place,’ Vic mumbled, slightly chastened. ‘They’ve got a couple of young kids with ’em. It ain’t right, livin’ like that.’

‘Couple of sweet little girls they are ’n’ all,’ Matilda remarked. ‘But yer can’t always pick ’n’ choose when it comes to putting a roof over yer family’s head.’

‘As far as I’m concerned they can stop in the road as long as they like if they ain’t causing trouble.’ Chris chipped in his opinion.

‘Well, I’m getting off home now,’ Vic announced, sounding sulky.

‘Winston Churchill’s gonna make a broadcast to the nation tomorrow about King George.’ Matilda’s tone was solemn once more. ‘Eight o’clock on the Home Service, just so’s you know when to tune in.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘Keep moving … keep moving … please …’

The crowd obediently shuffled away from the gates of Buckingham Palace to congregate instead on the nearby pavement. Nobody seemed to want to leave although it was bitterly cold and raining. In fact, as news had spread, people who’d been travelling home from their offices in the City had diverted to St James’s, swelling the multitude mourning the death of the king.

People were huddling together, turning up collars and pulling hats firmly down over their ears. But they stayed where they were, staring solemnly through the gloom at the royal palace where the Union Jack was limply fluttering at half-mast. Above the politely insistent voices of the policemen could be heard the sound of men and women weeping.

‘Come on now, over the road, please. Move away from the gates, madam …’

Matilda knuckled burning tears from her eyes and obeyed the constable’s request. He looked to her to be no more than a boy, but he had a nice face, and had kindly patted her shoulder on noticing her distress.

Having got a foothold on the packed kerb Matilda tried to wedge her stout body into a tight space. A woman in a luxurious fur coat unintentionally jostled her, knocking her back into the road. Matilda’s arthritic joint gave her a jolt and she gasped aloud.

‘So sorry, my dear,’ the woman murmured in a cut-glass accent.

Matilda nodded acceptance of the apology, rubbing her knee.

‘We’re going to miss him terribly,’ the woman added and shuffled sideways to make a space for Matilda next to her on the pavement.

Matilda settled beside her, aware of a floral scent wafting from the little lacy hanky the lady had held to her nose. ‘Right ’n’ all we are,’ Matilda gruffly returned. ‘His eldest gel’s got big shoes to fill …’ She broke off to watch as a sleek limousine drew up by the gates and was allowed through. She’d been outside the palace since five o’clock that afternoon, and during that time had seen many visitors arrive. A bobby on duty had explained to someone – and the information had rippled through the throng – that foreign diplomats were arriving to sign a book of condolences.

‘King and queen helped get us through the war, didn’t they?’ Matilda carried on in her rough tone. ‘Could’ve run and hid somewhere safe but they didn’t.’

The fur-coated woman nodded her elegantly coiffed head and on impulse shared the protection of her umbrella with Matilda. ‘Wonderful, steadfast people,’ she agreed and again wiped her nose. ‘She’s in Kenya, you know …’ At Matilda’s quizzical look the lady explained. ‘Young Elizabeth … she’s at the Royal Hunting Lodge in Kenya. But I’ve no doubt, she’ll be flying straight home. What dreadfully sad tidings for her and Margaret.’