Coronation Page 3

  Will Clagg experienced an even greater satisfaction. ‘There, see,’ he pointed out, ‘that might be us if it weren’t for Cousin Bert. Out in the wet and cold. In a minute we’ll all be dry and snug.’

  They marched along the rows of stands and for once Granny had nothing unpleasant to contribute. She, too, had succumbed to the flattery of the treatment they had been receiving as well as to the contagion of mounting excitement from the crowds, the flags and the spirit of festival.

  Thus afforded a short cut, they moved along more rapidly until they reached the far side of the square, where once more they found themselves bucking a human tide flowing in the other direction, and again friendly and helpful constables eased their way through until Clagg, looking up at a street-sign posted on the corner house, raised his arm and shouted to them, ‘There! There it is!’ The sign read: ‘Wellington Crescent, S.W.1’ to match the address on the wonderful tickets.

  The Crescent was just what its name implied, a scimitar of a street sweeping up from Wellington Square towards Belgravia, and because of its shape the first dozen or so houses had a view of the traffic circle, or a part of it; though, of course, as one moved further west the angle increased and the area of view diminished.

  ‘Come along then!’ Will Clagg cried, herding and hustling his brood in front of him, noting with satisfaction that the corner house of the Crescent was No. 1, that in its windows on the first and second floors were arranged seats of planking where people were sitting or standing about with their coats off, and some of them appeared to be eating and drinking. ‘Let’s get in out of the wet. We could all do with a bit of breakfast, couldn’t we?’

  They passed Nos. 2 and 3. People holding tickets that appeared to be similar to theirs were passing in through the front doors. In a first-floor window was a whole row of children in party dress, their faces shining with excitement, each clutching either a small pennant or a stick on which were fastened red, white and blue streamers, which they waved even though there was nothing to wave at. Behind them a maid was pouring something and another passing buns. This was exactly as described, word for word, on their own admissions. Clagg’s stomach could already feel the warmth and comfort of the hot tea descending.

  Clagg now quickly turned to look towards the great open plaza whence they had come. The angle and the view were still perfect, and thus he didn’t quite take in the fact that after No. 3 there occurred a gap in the buildings, crossed by heavy black beams stretching from the wall of No. 3 to where they supported that of the next house. But when he reached this further house and looked up to see, its number was not 4 but 6. And beyond 6 were Nos. 7, 8 and 9, still affording a view. 10 and 11 were beyond the angle. The windows were shuttered. Since they could not see they appeared to have closed their eyes.

  ‘Wait,’ Will said, ‘We must have passed it. Stay here.’ He retraced his steps quickly and counted again to make certain. 1, 2, 3, and then only that gaping space crossed by beams of timber; no numbers 4 or 5.

  The wind, perishingly cold, seemed to have increased; the rain as well; the outside of his mack was wet and now suddenly Will Clagg found himself damp within as well, as perspiration began to ooze from his arm-pits. He quickly counted again, and then, in alarm and half in relief at having been such a fool, he rushed to the other side of the street. But there were no houses there at all, only the long stretch of set-back buildings of the hospital biting deeply into the Crescent. He returned whence he had come, running almost blindly past his family in the grip of panic.

  A police constable was standing on the pavement talking with two thick-set men in the drab, unmistakable garb that proclaimed them plain-clothes detectives. Will stepped up to the policeman. ‘Beg your pardon, but could you tell me where No. 4 might be, Officer?’

  The constable eyed him gravely; his two companions stirred inside their mackintoshes and moved just that fraction of an inch nearer.

  Fear came to Clagg in a sickening wave. There was something familiar in these attitudes. He had seen groups such as these on street corners in Little Pudney, and had observed just such grave concentration as some shady-looking stranger had passed by.

  ‘Now why would you be wanting No. 4?’ asked the constable.

  Clagg produced his blue and gold embossed tickets, and suddenly the feel of them was no longer a comfort to him as they had been from the time he had first possessed them. Now, as he held them in his fingers, it was as though, quite suddenly, they had been drained of all their beauty and virtue.

  One of the men in plain clothes said, ‘Here’s another.’ His eyes travelled to the group surrounding Will – the wife, the children, the obvious grandmother – and he added, half under his breath, ‘And the family too, that’s rotten!’ The two men came closer to inspect the tickets.

  ‘Well, now,’ the P.C. said gently, ‘if there was a No. 4 it would be here. But as you see –’

  As they could all see indeed! They turned to follow the line of the constable’s look and saw what he saw, and what they had seen before, and what no amount of looking or staring or fearing or wishing or hoping could change. There was no house there at all, only a gap in which grew the ubiquitous fireweed where once had stood the bombed and burned out Nos. 4 and 5.

  Mrs. Clagg did not yet understand and her gaze wandered, uncomprehending, from the policeman to the empty space, to her husband’s face which had now gone quite white with an alarm that could no longer be conquered. Granny Bonner’s mouth was falling into a grim line and the wrinkles crossing her brow doubled. There was no doubt in her mind as to what was afoot. In the thickening atmosphere of apprehension the children began to look anxiously into the faces of their elders.

  The second plain-clothes detective asked, ‘Can you tell us who sold you these tickets?’

  In one sickening, heart-breaking moment the heretofore good, decent, honest British universe was collapsing about Clagg. And standing there among the shards it came to him that he must face the fact that his cousin Bert was either a crook himself or the biggest fool in the world. Neither of these contingencies was to be admitted before a stranger. ‘No,’ he replied.

  Granny’s eyes glowered behind her spectacles. Her arms went akimbo in the gesture that Clagg knew all too well; she was going to make a speech. ‘If it was me,’ she snapped, ‘I’d tell ’em. I have a good mind to right now –’

  ‘Be quiet!’ ordered Will, and the menace that flamed suddenly into his heavy, anguished face frightened and silenced her. ‘It wasn’t his fault. He thought he was doing us proud. It could happen to anyone.’

  Now, for the first time, the full import of the catastrophe was brought home to Violet Clagg, who translated the empty space where the house should have been into her own terms of disaster. ‘Then there won’t be any bubbly!’ she wailed. For at that moment this was as far as she could see and tears commenced to fall from her eyes. Frightened, Gwenny began to cry too without knowing why.

  Johnny asked, ‘Dad, what’s happened? What’s wrong, Dad?’

  Will Clagg replied bitterly, ‘We’ve been swindled!’

  The wind sighed around the curve of the Crescent and blew bitingly from the gaping hole. Behind its chilly front the light drizzle turned into heavy rain. Granny reached for the children, tugging their raincoats tighter about them and buttoning up their collars with the harsh, jerky movements employed by grown-ups with their young when they are irritated. ‘If I ever lay my hands on that Bert –’ she muttered, yanking at the buttonhole of Johnny’s collar so that the boy said, ‘Ow, Granny!’ and stiffened in resistance.

  The first detective pounced upon the name. ‘Bert, eh? Bert who?’

  Will turned on Granny savagely. ‘I told you to keep your bloody mouth shut!’ Then to the detective, ‘Bert nobody! I bought ’em from a fellow in the street outside St Pancras.’

  And there they were, the two groups with a wall between them – the constable, the two suspicious detectives and the innocent Claggs, with the latter somehow forced into the p
osition of being not quite that innocent. They had something to hide. Clagg had nothing against the police and always got on well with the men on post back home, yet he was of that environment to whom a copper was a copper and never wholly to be trusted.

  Violet Clagg said weakly, ‘But look at the name of the comp’ny on the tickets where it says No. 18 Victoria Road. Maybe we could go there and get our money back.’

  The second detective said wearily, ‘Ma’am, we’ve been there already. That’s another hole in the ground. So far it’s been mostly Americans and Australians that’s got stuck with these.’ He snorted. ‘Description of man selling same – two eyes, ears, a nose and a mouth. But if you could help us with this ’ere Bert we might have a chance to collar one or two of those spivs—’

  Clagg snatched the tickets back from the detective who was holding them and asked angrily, ‘Would it get us what’s called for – a view of the procession, breakfast and that there buffet lunch with champagne?’

  ‘No,’ replied the detective, ‘but—’

  ‘Then there wasn’t any Bert,’ Clagg said curtly. ‘Come to think of it, it was more like Joe or Sam.’

  The two detectives and the policeman stood regarding him heavily at this obviously mendacious statement. They made a kind of static islet in the constantly moving stream of people. Here were more Londoners come from all quarters of the vast city, visitors from out of town, vendors of programmes, flags, balloons and souvenirs, all swarming in one direction. The rain poured down upon them and they simply ignored it. For them it didn’t exist. Nothing could dampen their enthusiasm or extinguish their gaiety of spirit, their pride in being British and their joy in being alive that day. The area was full of the sounds of the eternal shuffling of feet, of laughter and chatter, shouts and cries, and one heard the word ‘Everest’ a great deal. Every so often parties holding valid and proper tickets detached themselves from the stream and entered into valid, proper and existing houses where genuine seats were built behind bona fide transparent windows and where no doubt breakfast, lunch and champagne would be served.

  It was obvious to Clagg that there was nothing more to be gained by remaining there. He gathered up his family with a gesture. ‘Come along, let’s get out of here.’

  A gust of wind bounced drops of rain off the helmet of the policeman and ballooned the tan mackintoshes of the two detectives. One of them said, ‘Just a moment, sir. We’d better have those tickets,’ and reached out his hand. From somewhere inside himself the constable produced a note-book and pencil stub, which he shielded from the rain with a cupped hand. ‘I’ll have to have your name and address, sir.’

  Clagg turned upon them angrily. ‘What the devil for? I’ve paid for them! All right, so I’ve got stuck. Can’t you leave us be? We’ve ’ad it! We’re making no complaint.’

  The detective said, ‘Evidence, sir. You want those fellows laid by the heels, don’t you? That’s a cruel hoax they’ve worked. Look at you and your family—’

  Johnny Clagg wailed, ‘I wanted to keep mine as a souvenir.’

  The detective’s hand was still outstretched for them. There was nothing for Clagg to do but give them over. The man inspected them gravely, nodding his head. His partner said, not unkindly, to Johnny, ‘When we’ve done with them we’ll send ’em back to you, if you like. They might just help us to catch those twisters now, mightn’t they?’

  The constable poised his pencil again. ‘Your name please, sir?’

  In his anger it was on the tip of Will Clagg’s tongue to reply, ‘John Smith,’ but he suddenly found his wrath shifting not only to the swine who had perpetrated this filthy trick, but to his cousin Bert as well. Was there not some kind of a law against giving a false name and address to the police? From being an innocent victim of a rotten swindle he was finding himself manoeuvred on to the side of the crooks, not only defending them but on the verge of himself becoming an accomplice by giving a wrong name and address. ‘Will Clagg,’ he replied, ‘No. 56 Imperial Road, Little Pudney.’

  ‘Occupation?’

  ‘Foreman, No. 2 Rolling Mill, Pudney Steel Works.’

  The constable’s eyes rested upon Clagg’s form for an instant in an appraisal that Clagg felt was not unadmiring. In that glance the constable had acknowledged him as a person of worth and importance, and Clagg experienced a moment of warmth for and understanding of the policeman engaged in his duty.

  ‘Wife’s name?’

  ‘Violet Clagg.’

  ‘Wife’s mother or yours?’

  ‘Wife’s. Elsie Bonner.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘John J. and Gwendoline R.’

  ‘There now,’ said the policeman having finished his writing, ‘you wouldn’t want to change your mind about that there Bert, would you?’

  For a moment Clagg was tempted. If the crooks might be traced through his cousin . . . Then his loyalty asserted itself again. ‘No!’

  The constable nodded as though he understood and said, ‘If we ever turn those fellows up, you’ll be notified.’

  Clagg merely said, ‘Come on,’ again to his family and they began to move off. The two detectives watched them go with sad, too-wise eyes.

  *

  The three grown-ups, and in particular Will Clagg, were too numbed for the moment by the disaster to know what they were doing or which way they were going. It was bad luck, therefore, that instead of heading for Wellington Place, where the barriers were still open, they moved, stunned and defeated, in the opposite direction towards Belgrave Square.

  Gwenny was not only too young to understand what had happened, but likewise too absorbed in the anticipation of seeing the Queen in her golden carriage. But Johnny, who was older and wiser, had a moment of panic communicated to him by the behaviour of the grown-ups. He was aware that there was something very wrong with the tickets they had bought and he had never seen the great god who was his father so flustered or put out. Yet not that easily was this figure demolished. Dad always somehow managed to set right things that had gone wrong and would undoubtedly do so again. In the meantime here he was for the first time in his life plunged into the excitement that was London on Coronation Day. Somewhere the soldiers he had come to see would be forming up for the grand processional parade and sooner or later he was bound to encounter them. His faith in his father remained undiminished.

  Not so Granny, whose tongue had not stopped clacking from the moment they had got out of earshot of the detectives. The rise and fall of her querulous voice ran on and on like some incongruous background commentary on the wireless, on the gullibility of men, but in particular the stupidity of Bert and Will.

  ‘Oh do be quiet, Mum,’ Violet said suddenly and sharply, and to her own great surprise. ‘It wasn’t Will’s fault or Bert’s either. They both wanted us to have the best there was.’ She was startled at her own temerity at speaking up thus to her mother, but the feeling of her husband’s pain and humiliation had communicated itself to her and touched her and she had spoken before she was aware of it.

  ‘Humph,’ said Granny, ‘you’ve got to stick up for him, of course. You know as well as I do that I’m right.’ But she subsided then and walked along through the cold, steady rain, her lips moving silently, her gimlet eyes hard and angry.

  Will Clagg’s preoccupation as they retreated from the scene of their defeat was not so much who was to blame or the extent of his responsibility for what had happened and was happening; it was his world which had been shattered. Over and above his concern for the disappointment his children were about to suffer was the realisation of the penetration of his safe, homely British world by something evil, crooked and destructive.

  An honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay was what Will Clagg had always delivered and received. He lived in simplicity and decency under a reasonably secure system. True, there were police and there were thieves and murderers, yes, and tricksters too on a grand scale, and the newspapers were always entertainingly full of robberies and bashings, rapine an
d murder, kidnapping and arson, gigantic swindles and the mulctings of widows and orphans. But all these things always happened to someone else. Never before had any crime been directed at him, since he had never owned anything worth stealing. For the first time, then, he had been compelled to acknowledge the savage jungle surrounding him. Curiously enough, his usually stolid mind provided a sudden moment of imaginative creation in which he saw the counterfeiters in their den bending over their engraving tools and stamping machines, grinning and sniggering as they mocked up the tickets with which to cheat Will Clagg and his family.

  Clagg had suffered a blow. He was aware that neither he nor life thereafter would ever be quite the same again. He had learned a crushing lesson with regard to bargains, but it was his family who would most truly suffer from it and it was this that angered him almost to the point of tears. He was so completely helpless. The crooks would never be turned up. And what if they were? The Coronation with all the joys and excitement they would miss would long be over.

  In the meantime he marched on blindly and dumbly, and his family followed him, none of them knowing whither they were going. Thus they passed from Belgrave Square up William Street into Knightsbridge, where again they encountered crowds streaming eastwards.

  They stood there under the grey weeping skies for a moment, watching the people. From the direction of the river, borne on the rain-laden gusts of wind, came a distant thudding. Johnny Clagg pricked up his ears. ‘Guns!’ he cried excitedly.

  The sound of the saluting cannon seemed to point up all they were being denied. For an instant Will Clagg caved in completely, sick at heart and defeated. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘we’ve had it. I’m a fool. I’ve queered it. We’d better go home.’

  Violet Clagg took his arm. ‘Don’t take it so to heart, Will. It wasn’t your fault.’ The word ‘home’ penetrated to both children and they sent up an anguished wail of protest, but oddly enough it was Granny now who put her foot down.