Dark Shadows over Coronation Close: The BRAND NEW instalment in Lizzie Lane's heartbreaking saga series for 2024

By Lizzie Lane

The Brand New Instalment in the Coronation Close Saga from Lizzie Lane.There’s talk of war and dark clouds fester on the horizon...

Bristol 1938

A shadowy presence overshadows Coronation Close, watching and waiting. Jenny Crawford is the first to notice the stranger and wonders why his attention is fixed on Thelma Dawson’s house. When challenged he makes a hasty retreat.

Meanwhile Thelma is having trouble with her precocious daughter Mary who is about to leave school and start work. Mary considers herself an adult but to Thelma she’s still a little girl; an attitude resented by her daughter.

Unknown to her mother, Mary is secretly befriended by a stranger, an older man who treats her as the grown up she thinks she is. But what does this man want with this naïve young girl?

Problems shared are problems halved. Jenny and Thelma certainly share theirs as the shadow of war rolls over from Europe and nothing seems certain.

Praise for Lizzie Lane:

'A gripping saga and a storyline that will keep you hooked' Rosie Goodwin

'The Tobacco Girls is another heartwarming tale of love and friendship and a must-read for all saga fans' Jean Fullerton

'Lizzie Lane opens the door to a past of factory girls, redolent with life-affirming friendship, drama, and choices that are as relevant today as they were then' Catrin Collier

'If you want an exciting, authentic historical saga then look no further than Lizzie Lane' Fenella J Miller

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boldwood Books
• Release date: Jan 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9781804834138

Lizzie Lane

Lizzie Lane is the author of over 50 books, including the bestselling Tobacco Girls series. She was born and bred in Bristol where many of her family worked in the cigarette and cigar factories.

Book preview

1

APRIL 1938

Her daughters having gone to bed, Jenny Crawford drew the curtains against the night and prepared to sit down and do some mending whilst listening to the wireless but swiftly changed her mind.

‘This is the twenty-eighth of April 1938 and this is the third news of the day. The time is 9 p.m. Neville Chamberlain stated that he was hopeful that they could agree on a mutual strategy regarding the Sudeten region in Czechoslovakia and that rumours of the likelihood of war were greatly exaggerated by those who⁠—’

‘I don’t want to know!’ Jenny Crawford snapped.

She turned it off with as much fervour as someone might wring a chicken’s neck.

War. The word of the moment. She heard it from neighbours and even from women waiting to be served in the greengrocer’s. The sooner it went away, the better, but all she could do for now was not listen to the news.

Broadcasts on the BBC began at 10.15 in the morning with the morning service. The first news of the day wasn’t broadcast until 6 p.m. After that it became crammed in every evening. She used to listen a lot more before all this talk of war. Bram Martin and his orchestra was pleasing. A play or half-hour of comedy was uplifting. Listening to the wireless on an evening had always constituted her own private hour or so after her daughters, Tilly and Gloria, had gone to bed. Nowadays, she was careful what time she tuned in.

It wasn’t that long since the Great War, when millions from all over the world had died – and not just those in uniform. Zeppelins had flown over London and the Home Counties dropping bombs that had done notable damage and killed a thousand people. The very thought of it happening again – perhaps to a greater extent thanks to the proliferation of more modern weapons, more ways of killing, of destroying cities and lives – was terrifying.

Some people were suggesting that those who prophesied war were exaggerating, and that this man Hitler, who sought a purist German state, could be appeased. Having heard of some of the horrors, she didn’t think so. Like many others, she was worried about her children being killed in their home and the young men likely to be called up to fight for king and country – just like before. Did men never learn?

It seemed not. At least those at the top didn’t seem inclined to learn. And as for everyone else, small people could do nothing but hope and pray.

Without the wireless, the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. As it ticked away the seconds and minutes, Jenny felt the distance between her and the wireless announcement widen. It was behind her. She could forget it.

A good night’s sleep should set me right, she thought.

At first, she tossed and turned. Nothing seemed to settle her until she turned her mind to planning the following day. The garden beckoned. On sensing yet another day of spring sunshine, the plants had rushed into the exuberant bloom one would expect in summer. So had the privet hedges which surrounded every house on the estate, small cascades of white flowers with a strong smell. They needed trimming.

A bright day came with the dawn. Once the girls had left for school and the laundry was hanging on the line, Jenny prepared everything she needed. Her old gardening boots had seen better days, but they were waterproof and comfortable – mainly because they were two sizes too big.

After collecting a pair of shears, she headed out front. She had every intention of attacking the hedge with a vengeance. Her hope was that a combination of physical effort and enjoying the fresh air would blot out the rest of the world and its troubles. Her world would narrow down to the everyday things, the insignificant things that she had some control over – such as the privet hedge.

Privet leaves and bits of twig flew up her arms and around her face and she began to relax and then to hum to herself and dance tunes that she’d heard on the wireless. It seemed that the shears snipped in time to the music. The world suddenly seemed a better place.

Mondays remained laundry days to the sticklers for convention, though what difference the day made Jenny found amusing. As far as she was concerned, as the long as the weather was dry and a stiff breeze blowing, it didn’t much matter what day the laundry was hung out. Today looked just perfect for hanging out a line. She’d pegged hers out early before the girls were up.

At ten fifteen, she went back inside and made herself a cup of tea and took the last two biscuits from the biscuit barrel. Peace had returned to her own personal space.

The short break was much enjoyed. Now back to the garden.

Coronation Close was quiet at this time of the day. The milkman had been and gone and the vegetable man, fresh fruit and veg piled on the back of his horse-drawn cart, wouldn’t be around until midday.

Jenny set to with the shears, lopping off the longer pieces that dared escape the nice level hedge she required. Once satisfied that the top of the hedge was neat and flat, she wiped at her forehead.

She would have dipped straight back down and trimmed the lower hedge until she saw movement, then a figure standing straight and still, outside number one Coronation Close.

She paused wondering what he wanted. She didn’t recognise him. He wasn’t a neighbour. So who was he?

The Close formed a horseshoe shape so the numbers ran consecutively all around the circle of green grass from one to twelve. Although standing outside number one, the stranger seemed transfixed by number twelve.

It occurred to her that he might be selling something, though she hadn’t seen any sign of a case. Most of the tally men who came banging on doors carried their goods in suitcases unless they were calling to collect the money due. They sold everything from household goods to books. Few of her neighbours could afford to buy books. It was household goods they favoured – new bedding, towels, crockery or children’s clothes.

‘Well, I’m not buying, so he needn’t think that,’ she murmured.

Laying aside her shears, her attention turned to picking the last of this year’s daffodils. She began humming again as she cut a few choice blooms and smiled when she thought of the cobalt glass vase Robin Hubert had given her. The glass had been left as a pledge at his second-hand furniture and pawn shop at Filwood Broadway and never reclaimed. Either they’d moved away or decided they didn’t need it anyway. The money given in exchange for the pledge had been more useful. It was like that for a lot of people. Valuable objects couldn’t buy food or pay the rent. That’s the way it was.

It was a lovely vase. Robin had remarked on it being Bristol glass.

‘Bristol glass was mostly blue. Dark blue.’

He’d looked deeply into her eyes as he’d said that. She’d found herself blushing – just as she did now at the memory.

Robin had refused to accept payment and the thought of what he’d said broadened her smile.

‘Call it a bonus,’ he’d said. ‘Or a late Christmas present.’

She’d pointed out that it was getting towards the end of April.

Unperturbed, he’d responded, ‘Easter then.’

‘That’s been and gone too.’

‘Imagine it’s your twenty-first birthday. Sorry I missed it.’

She’d laughed then and smiled now. Robin always had an answer. They shared the same sense of humour, had been childhood friends but had grown apart and married other people. Fate had since intervened. Her husband, Roy, had become a career soldier, informing her that he much preferred brothers in arms to a day job and living a domestic existence with her and the children. He’d assured her that he still loved the children, but that his heart was elsewhere.

They’d grappled with poverty and unemployment during their marriage. Those things alone drained whatever affection they might once have had, which in turn had led to violence and love turning to fear and even hate. It had taken several years before the parting of ways and had been a relief for Jenny. Roy’s temper and frequent bouts of violence had been a marriage made in anywhere but heaven. She couldn’t blame him entirely for how he was. He’d come back from the Great War in 1918 fully expecting the promises made by those in power to come to fruition. Why shouldn’t a man be given some kind of reward for having served his country?

His hope had been short-lived. Not only could he not find a decent job but finding somewhere to live had been difficult. From one series of cramped rooms in a shared house to another – until their last room in Blue Bowl Alley in a crumbling slum close coupled with other ageing slums in the medieval heart of the old city. By hook – or even crook, in the guise of a council official who also happened to have been one of Oswald Mosley’s Blackshirts – they were offered a council house.

It had meant a new start though at the time Jenny hadn’t known just how new. Shortly after coming to Coronation Close, the truth came out and Roy had declared proudly, excitement shining in his eyes that he’d joined the army. That was what he wanted. Jenny had simply wanted a decent house in which to bring up her daughters.

While Jenny’s life had been governed by Roy, Robin’s had been governed by Doreen. Their marriage had been based on a lie but Robin had believed Doreen when she’d told him that she was pregnant and that he was the father. His parents had still been alive and had insisted he married the girl. That’s how it was. Young men were expected to ‘do the right thing’. Young women were expected not to get into trouble in the first place.

It had been a case of marry in haste, repent at leisure. Eighteen months after their wedding day, Doreen’s declaration of being in the family way at last proved true when she gave birth to their daughter, and a son had followed.

‘Longest pregnancy in history,’ Robin’s mother had grumbled.

Happy ever after had not happened. Doreen became bored not only with domestic life but with marriage in general and Robin in particular. There were rumours of her having ‘fancy men’.

Robin was mortified but had put up with her for the sake of the children. No amount of arguing or threats had any effect – not that Robin was the type to ever raise his hand to a woman. And Doreen knew it.

Her behaviour never improved. She started quarrels just so that she could stomp out of the door and disappear for a time – sometimes for a few days.

‘I’ve been with friends,’ she would tell him when she bothered to return. ‘Can’t stick yur in this bloody ’ouse all day waiting for you to come home.’

It became a waste of time to accuse her of starting the quarrels deliberately. Over time, it got that he couldn’t care less. Not that it seemed to bother her. She preferred her companions at the Black Horse, the George and the Bunch of Grapes to him. She came back displaying the attitude that she was doing him a favour, keeping him dangling on a string. ‘Like a bloody puppet,’ he often stated. And he had been that, accepting her back from whatever company she’d been with, for the sake of the children.

Jenny fully accepted that she and Robin had made regrettable mistakes. Both were now separated from their spouses and fate had thrown them back together again but only as friends. Good friends.

She now worked part-time for him at his second-hand furniture and pawn shop, which gave her independence plus a little money. Doreen who, even though living elsewhere, still demanded maintenance from him, thus Jenny was only paid a few pounds.

If he dared complain, Doreen’s riposte would be, ‘Wouldn’t want the kids to do without would you?’

It was sheer blackmail.

Being of a kindly nature, Robin did his duty by his wife and his generosity wasn’t only confined to his family. Sometimes he gave furniture away to those who needed it. He sold and exchanged furniture at the front of the shop and had a pawn shop at the rear, just as his mother had done down in Stokes Croft – a busy area of shops and bustling traffic close to St James’s Church. He was the man someone went to for a bit of furniture or a few shillings to last them until payday.

On his mother’s death, Robin had carried on with the business, moving it out of the city centre and to the heart of one of the new council estates to the south of the city. The bevy of shops on either side of the expanse of green at Filwood Broadway, including his, served the post-Great War sprawling red-brick council estate of Knowle West. Business was as brisk here for him as it had been for his mother trading in the heart of the city.

His mother had always said that being in the pawnbroking business was like being on a merry-go-round that never went anywhere and never stopped. Those a bit short of cash at the beginning of one week came in to pawn their valuables, retrieved them on pay day – usually a Friday – and brought them along again on Monday. Those were the ones Robin never made much money on, but at least a regular shilling was better than ten rarely seen.

The business was doing as well as could be expected. His marriage was not.

Robin and Doreen were currently living apart. Robin’s wife had insisted on staying in rooms in a tenement owned by a man she termed a friend. Robin learned that indeed he was far more than that. Robin’s young daughter had told him so.

‘Ma sleeps with Uncle.’

It shouldn’t have come as a massive surprise, but to hear the truth from the mouth of his ten-year-old daughter had knocked him sideways. Yet another man passing through Doreen’s life – one of many. He’d finally faced up to the fact that Doreen wasn’t suited for marriage and never would be. Unlike most women who persevered for the sake of their children, Doreen chose to go all out for what she really wanted. And she wanted other men. She liked a fun time and a bit of variety.

Many people ostracised those who threw in the towel and became separated or divorced, but Robin had held his head high, bought the shop in Filwood Broadway and threw himself into his business and providing for his children. Because he had to work, the children had remained with their mother. He made sure he saw them frequently, though Doreen couldn’t have cared less one way or the other so long as he paid her maintenance.

Marriage, thought Jenny as she snipped the last daffodil, is not necessarily made in heaven. Hers certainly hadn’t been and neither had Robin’s.

Enough daffodils cut to fill the vase, Jenny straightened and slipped the scissors into her apron pocket. She was about to go back into the house but her attention was taken by the man she’d seen earlier. He was still standing on the pavement outside number one Coronation Close, the house that used to be occupied by Mrs Partridge.

Mrs Partridge had died in coronation year, 1937. Mr Partridge, who had spent years pretending to be her sister, had been imprisoned for deserting from the trenches in which he’d served during the Great War. Explosions, death, blood and destruction had broken his nerve. He’d deserted and with the help of his wife he’d lived as a woman for years – until his wife had died. Then he’d thrown in the towel, given himself up.

He’d been led away on the day of the coronation when King George the Sixth and Queen Elizabeth had been crowned in the glory that was Westminster Abbey. Everyone presumed Mr Partridge was still in prison, but nothing had been heard from him since.

Her former neighbours had been keen gardeners, but things had changed since the rough-and-ready Arkle family had moved in. Gone were the blossoms from the front garden that used to fill the air with perfume and colour. Gone too were the vegetables from the back garden. The Arkle kids had been seen selling bunches of flowers outside the cemetery, the vegetables sold door to door for a few coppers.

Whilst the man’s attention was fixed elsewhere, Jenny took further stock of his appearance. He was of average height and average build. In fact, everything about the man leaning against next-door’s privet hedge was average including his clothes. He was dressed in a brown gaberdine mac, the collar turned up around his face. His hands were buried deep in his pockets.

It occurred to her that he might be from the council come to read the riot act to Mr or Mrs Arkle. Not that he’d get much joy there. Mr Arkle avoided anyone of authority. If he was home, he’d send out his wife Rosellia. Mrs Arkle would beam and say, in amongst the machine-gun-quick Spanish, ‘Me no speak English.’ It was a lie. She could certainly speak it when she wanted to.

But while it was the privet hedge of number one he was leaning against, he was staring across the road at number twelve. Yes. There was no doubt in her mind now that his attention was fixed on Thelma Dawson’s house. But why would he be watching Thelma’s place?

In her mind, Jenny sought for possibilities that might entice a council visit. Precious few queued up to be recognised. Thelma paid her rent on time and besides the fact that she was an honest woman, she had an ongoing relationship with Cuthbert Throgmorton, senior rent collector. If anything was amiss, she would hear it from him first. Nor was she a problem neighbour. She kept her house neat and tidy, had a steady job and was not unduly noisy. On the contrary, she exercised her authority when someone wasn’t keeping their pig bin clean or leaving a trail of clinker around the base of their ashbin. Thelma liked things just so.

‘What if the King and Queen came visiting,’ she was fond of saying. ‘Want it all neat and tidy when they turn up, don’t we?’

The chances of royalty ever making its way into Coronation Close were slim. But Thelma, a keen collector of coronation memorabilia and fervent royalist, lived in hope.

Thelma had made Jenny more than welcome when she had first moved into Coronation Close. She knew something of Jenny’s life before she’d moved into the Close, as it was termed. So Jenny felt she owed her friend a few favours and keeping an eye on Thelma’s house when she was at work was one of those she didn’t mind doing at all.

But what now? Should she ask the man outright why he was so interested in her house? No, but she had to question him in some way, perhaps say something friendly, that wouldn’t betray her suspicion of him.

She took a deep breath. Flowers clutched in her hand, the blooms nestling in the crook of her arm, she trailed along the hedges to the front gate of her own garden.

Across the road at Thelma’s house, the buds of a yellow climbing rose only just coming into bud were nodding in a smiley manner above the privet hedge. A few had dared to burst open despite it being too early in the season for roses.

‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ Well, he was looking in that direction.

He started, turned his head and stared at her.

‘The roses across the road at number twelve. They’re beautiful. And so are these for that matter.’

He looked surprised to see her there, as though he’d been so engrossed in his mission of watching Thelma’s that he hadn’t noticed her. His eyes were blue, his face very pale. She got the impression that his hair was reddish though couldn’t tell for sure on account of the brim of his trilby.

‘The daffodils,’ she said and nodded at the flower heads, bright as suns against the dark green of her cardigan. ‘I know people say that snowdrops are the first sign of spring, but it’s not until the daffodils begin to dance in a March breeze and are still cheering us up in April, that’s when I think spring has finally arrived and that summer is on the doorstep.’ She patted the daffodil heads affectionately. ‘Of course, it’s nearly the end of April and a surprise that they’re still blooming. The daffodils are late and those rosebuds across the road are early. The weather’s been wonderful for the time of year. Really warm.’

It was as if she’d awoken him from a deep sleep. He hunched his shoulders, pulled the brim of his brown trilby hat further down over his face and then was gone.

Like a rabbit, she thought.

Through narrowed eyes, she watched until he turned left at the end of the cul-de-sac and disappeared. There was no doubt in her mind that he’d been surveying Thelma’s house and that she’d taken him by surprise.

Creepy, she thought. Why had he been staring so intently? It crossed her mind that he might be contemplating breaking in and taking whatever valuables he could find. Thelma would be heartbroken if anyone stole her royal crockery collection. She’d built it up over several years and guarded her mugs, cups, saucers and plates like the Crown Jewels. Jenny had only ever known one item of that collection being broken. A coronation mug depicting King Edward the Eighth had been her most treasured possession back in 1936. Not because it had been a present from Cuthbert Throgmorton – which it had been – but because Thelma had thought King Edward the handsomest of the royal family. It had been to the amazement of the world, parliament, the lords and the commons that Edward declined to be king, instead declaring his intention to marry an American divorcee. Thelma’s anger had boiled over. He’d let the country down, but worse than that he’d let her down. Furious beyond belief, she had smashed the mug to pieces.

Turning thoughtfully back to the house with both the cut flowers and her shears, Jenny tried to convince herself that there must be a perfectly logical reason for the man being there, and for him running off like that.

Back in her living room, she turned the wireless on. Music for now but when the pips sounded for the news, she would turn it off.

It was as she was arranging the flowers in the pretty glass vase that her thoughts turned back to the man she’d failed to recognise and another possibility, which made her pause and go quite cold.

Way back at the beginning of last year, during a severe snowstorm in nineteen thirty-seven, a man had attacked Thelma and left her in the family way. The pregnancy had not come to fruition, but angry that he’d taken advantage of her and fully aware that the police would do nothing, Thelma had found out where he lived. His name was Sam Hudson and, to Thelma’s horror, she had discovered that he didn’t live that far away.

‘I want to face him down,’ Thelma had said, yet again stoutly refused to report him to the police. Jenny understood that. She’d heard many a tale of the police not wanting to know. Their belief seemed to be that women were hysterical creatures but also too licentious for their own good. It was always their fault. They led men on. Women only had themselves to blame. That seemed to be the opinion of the police and men in general. ‘I’ll face him and then I’ll announce what he is to all and sundry.’

‘Do you think you should?’ Jenny had cautioned.

Eyes blazing, Thelma had ground her teeth. ‘I have to, love. Otherwise I’ll go mad!’

Jenny had heard all about it, how Thelma had stood on the pavement outside staring at that closed front door. Even the rows of stone gnomes in the front garden of his house had failed to make her smile. They were too much like him, grinning faces that mocked rather than welcomed.

Going there on a weekday had been a mistake. He was at work. Of course he was. She had ended up meeting his wife, Beryl, a poor disabled woman, downtrodden, sometimes confined to her bedroom and living a life of hell. Instead of confronting her attacker Thelma had befriended his wife.

Jenny considered now that the stranger could be him. She imagined mentioning the man to Thelma. ‘Some bloke weighing you up for a weekly payment for a pair of bath towels,’ she would quip and leave Thelma to surmise who it might be. Her comment would be met with a quick-witted response. She could imagine it now, right down to the words Thelma was likely to use and the expression she was likely to pull.

‘I don’t give a jot as long as he wasn’t weighing me up for a coffin!’

It almost made Jenny burst out laughing until she