Coronation Wives by Lizzie Lane Read Free Book Online

could make a move. If it hadn’t been late and she wasn’t waiting to be served, Polly would have gone after her. They’d never got on. Polly considered Muriel a right old tart who needed her mouth washed out with soap and water. The fact that she herself let a few choice words slip now and again was neither here nor there. Polly considered herself better than Muriel. It didn’t occur to her to question the crowd as to who they considered was mutton dressed as lamb. It had to be Muriel.
    It didn’t take long to get served after that. Hamblins, the fish and chip shop owners, didn’t like dealing with troublemakers that late at night and the police weren’t keen on coming out either.
    Fish and chips wrapped in newspaper and hugged to her chest, Polly installed herself in the passenger seat of the van, her right knee raised higher than her left by virtue of the sacks on the floor. ‘What’s that?’ she said indicating them with her foot.
    Billy started the engine. ‘Money in the bank!’
    ‘Oh ah!’ Polly knew better than to query further. Instead she concentrated on gaining the best position possible on the ripped leather seat. An exposed spring squealed in protest. ‘So how long ’ave you got this?’
    ‘Could buy it if I want to.’
    Polly continued to wriggle. ‘It ain’t exactly first-class, is it? Look at these seats! They’re all ripped. It ain’t aff scratching my bum. And this stuff you’ve got packed in ’ere – there’s ’ardly room to bloody breathe!’
    ‘I can get the seats fixed. And the stuff’ll be going.’ He smirked, his mouth tilting to one side like a wickedly naughty adolescent. ‘Got to get rid of it before it burns a hole in the floor.’
    Polly sighed. ‘Don’t tell me any more! It’s ’otter than these bloody fish and chips I’ve got in me lap.’
    The van was old, the controls none too smooth. As Billy pulled away the vehicle jerked violently forward then stopped dead. The engine had stalled. A hoard of boxes in the rear fell into the back of Polly’s head and her forehead bumped onto the dashboard. ‘Oh for Chrissakes!’
    The parcel of chips caught on something sharp and was ripped open. Vinegar, grease and a fillet of cod fell out of the paper and onto her lap. The chips showered the floor and the dusty sack at her feet.
    Polly was livid. ‘Billy Hills, this van is a death trap!’
    ‘Stop moaning, Poll. A second-class ride’s better than a first-class walk, ain’t it?’
    ‘You’ve got to be bloody kidding! Look at my uniform!’
    ‘It’ll wash, won’t it?’ he said in easy, amiable tones as he concentrated on pushing the boxes back behind the seats.
    ‘The vinegar’s gone through to my knickers!’ She held her clothes away from her legs. ‘I smell like two penn’orth of cod! I’ll have all the bloody cats following me now!’
    ‘Lovely smell! Better than the best French perfume.’
    ‘Well, I know which I’d prefer!’
    ‘Right! Soon be home. I expect yer Aunty Meg’s done us a bit of supper anyway. I don’t mind a bit of bread and cheese.’
    Polly closed her eyes and shook her head in exasperation. There was grease on her lap, dusty chips and squashed cod round her feet. What a waste!
    It was at times like these that she really wished that things had turned out differently. Most of the time Billy made enough to survive, but the flow of money wasn’t regular and he tended to shift from one dodgy venture to another in a constant search for instant wealth.
    Sometimes when Polly looked in the mirror after another application of peroxide to her greying hair she wondered where the old Polly had gone, the one who had danced the jitterbug and canoodled in a darkened picture house with Canadian or American servicemen. If Carol’s father had come back from the war, she would never have married Billy, would never have been working at the Broadway and would not be living in a council house. It had all been a pipedream. The glamorous life she’d