Only One Woman Read online

  Published by Accent Press Ltd 2017

  Octavo House

  West Bute Street

  Cardiff

  CF10 5LJ

  www.accentpress.co.uk

  Copyright © Christina Jones and Jane Risdon 2017

  The right of Christina Jones and Jane Risdon to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by the authors in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of Accent Press Ltd.

  eISBN 9781682994252

  Dedications and Acknowledgements

  From Christina Jones:

  To: Allan - my brother and my friend - the boy who was there for me all my life, who shared the Only One Woman reality and the fiction, and who so wanted to read this book. Love and miss you always, Tina.

  From Jane Risdon:

  Dedicated to my wonderful husband, our beloved son and his wife, and our three gorgeous grandchildren, with all my love forever.

  I would like to thank my beloved husband for always being my number one fan regardless of what I’ve undertaken. He rocks. Thanks to Chrissie for believing in me and for writing with me – you’re a star.

  Thanks to all my siblings and our family, especially my aunt Biddy, who’ve always been there for me – there are no words.

  Many thanks to all those over the years who have extended the hand of friendship and have remained our friends through thick and thin: Liz and Dave, Gloria and Martin, Christine and Gerry and so many others too numerous to list. Heart-felt gratitude and love.

  Thank you to all those fab folk who have been patiently awaiting this book. Greatly appreciated. We hope you love it.

  Renza’s Diary

  May 24th 1968 – late

  What a flipping nightmare of an evening. I really thought I’d never get home in one piece. Everything that could go wrong, went wrong. Someone up there hates me I’m sure.

  If only Selina hadn’t lost her handbag at the Top Rank, I’d have caught the last bus back from Reading and I would’ve been home on time. Instead I’d gone back with the others to look for it – thankfully it had been handed in at the cloakroom and nothing was missing. Luckily I had just enough money for the train, which I’d had to run for. Selina’s dad took the others home in his brand new car as arranged, and there wasn’t room for me as well. I reckon he could’ve taken me but Yvette refused to let me sit on her lap in the front, in case I ripped her Mary Quant stockings. Sometimes I really want to do her a mischief.

  They’ve got to do something about our local station, it’s just too creepy for words. Steam from the train almost suffocated me as I crossed the bridge to the exit on the opposite platform; all very ‘Brief Encounter’ I remember thinking, in an effort to stop my mind wandering off into ‘Hitchcock-land.’ Talk about cough myself silly, and my eyes stung something rotten as I tried to find my way in the pitch black. The two over-head lamps didn’t help much, they should do something about those flipping lights, I could’ve broken my neck, or even worse, tripped over in my new pink kitten heels and broken one of them.

  I slowly took the steps down to the lane beside the station, glancing around me all the while – I admit it, I was a little freaked out. It’s always deserted, and you can never be too careful. Not long ago a dangerous prisoner escaped from the nearby asylum and hid in the waiting room for days before being recaptured. Hardly anyone uses the station since the cutbacks by that old idiot, Beeching, and the trains are a bit hit and miss since they messed with the timetable, so the convict was able to wait for his twisted ankle to mend without much danger of discovery. For all I knew, another Jack the Ripper could’ve been lurking in there waiting for me to pass, that’d just been my flaming luck.

  I was in so much trouble. Forty minutes later than agreed. She’d never believe me about the bag, but no other excuse came to mind as I walked down the lane. I was going to be so dead.

  Oh God!

  I had such a fright. Something or someone, made a noise behind me, so I stopped and listened, but I really felt like running. Some sort of night creature, silly girl, I decided as I walked on. But there it was again. Was someone behind me?

  I turned and peered into the pitch dark – I’m still shaking as I write this. I told myself it sounded like a hedgehog – had to be. Don’t panic, no-one comes down here at night I reminded myself. Oh cripes, that lane, I hate it. Anyone could jump out to get you, seriously, I’ve often wondered, who’d hear you yell? No-one, that’s who. There aren’t any lights or houses down there.

  I must remember – next time the girls ask me to the Top Rank – to leave early and get the bus on time. Next time, who am I kidding?

  I’m going nuts – I hope no-one ever reads this, I’d die, but I started singing quietly to myself – I do that sometimes when I’m feeling a bit nervous – well seriously spooked actually. I turned on to the main road relieved no-one had grabbed me, and headed for our house. That’s when I heard him…

  ***

  ‘What time do you think this is?’

  Well, I nearly died of fright. I actually jumped. I couldn’t work out where the voice was coming from. It seemed to echo all around me in the dimly lit street. Someone had followed me, that’s what I kept thinking. I hurried past the bus stop when I heard him again. What to do? Should I run? If I screamed, bringing Mum and half the village outside, Mrs Digby would just love that and if I got murdered, well, it didn’t bear thinking about. All this went through my brain at a rate of knots as I tried to work out where the voice was coming from. Would I make it to the gate? Bloody Selina and her stupid bag. I was going to die all because of her stupid bag.

  ‘You’re out very late.’

  I froze. I was partly relieved it wasn’t Mum or Mrs Digby’s voice. It was definitely a man’s. Who the hell was it? I was considering running but I didn’t want to break another heel, not after the last time. The cobbler said he couldn’t repair it if it snapped again. Besides, the bloke didn’t sound like a cold blooded murderer, well, not really. I mean, what sort of killer asks you what time do you call this, before bumping you off?

  ‘Well?’

  The voice sounded even nearer and something made me look up towards the row of shops not far from our house. A window was open in the flat above the hairdresser’s, Shirley’s, and I could just make out a head and shoulders poking through. Someone with long dark hair; definitely a bloke.

  Thank God, at least I hadn’t been followed by a crazed axe murderer after-all.

  ‘Mind your own business. What’s it got to do with you when I come home?’ I stopped walking and stood looking up at him. I couldn’t make out his features in the dark, and being shortsighted, even full daylight wouldn’t have made that much difference anyway.

  ‘You’re lucky you don’t have school tomorrow, coming back this late.’

  Flaming nerve! He sounded like my Dad. Who the hell was he, I wondered. Too young to be one of Mum’s spies surely.

  ‘Drop dead!’ I turned and flounced off towards our gate, trying hard not to go over on my ankle on the uneven pavement. I had a bad case of the shakes thanks to him.

  ‘I’ll be watching you. Make sure you get your beauty sleep,’ he shouted just as I closed the gate, anxiously glancing at the house in case Mum or Mrs Digby next door had heard someone shouting at me in the street.

&nbs
p; I’d never be allowed to forget it if Mum thought Mrs Digby had heard me making a spectacle of myself in public. Even getting murdered would’ve been my fault, causing her embarrassment in front of the whole village. Perish the thought – a public spectacle, no matter it wasn’t instigated by me. Fingers crossed most people were in bed by now anyway.

  Just as I got to the front door, it was yanked open by Mum and she stood aside in the hall to let me pass. Dread flooded over me. She’d heard me shouting. I was dead!

  She was about to start on me when thankfully one of the kids woke up, having a nightmare or something, yelling and thrashing about in the room they all shared. With a withering look at me, she stomped upstairs to see whoever it was.

  I heard something about ‘chocks away,’ followed by a huge thud. Then Mum yelling, ‘you can’t go to the loo in there! It’s the wardrobe! Get out of there!’ followed by a lot of shuffling about.

  That would be my ten-year-old brother Simon doing a parachute jump from the top bunk and then mistaking the wardrobe for the loo – it often happened after he’d been messing about with his Air-fix.

  Blessing him and his night-games – for once – I used the commotion to sneak into my room and get ready for bed. Hopefully Mum wouldn’t come into my room, and if she did I would pretend to be asleep. I’d get away with it – but she would certainly start on me in the morning.

  I sighed heavily and prepared myself for not being allowed to go anywhere ever again in this lifetime.

  Renza’s Diary

  May 25th 1968

  I left to do my paper-round at 5am, the house silent as I wheeled my bike through the front gate. I glanced up at the flats over the shops to see if there was any sign of life.

  The bloke who’d shouted was intriguing me. I couldn’t work out why he’d been so interested in what time I got home. The flat must have been rented out recently because I’m sure the last time Mum had spoken to Shirley, who owned the salon beneath, she said it was still empty and that can’t have been that long ago. It would be nice to have new neighbours – but not ones who were going to get me into even more trouble with Mum.

  The air was really fresh and the sun was beginning to warm the ground as I cycled to the next village to collect my papers. The fields were covered in mist which hovered about three feet off the ground, and with the sun shining through the trees as I passed the hedges all green and lush, it looked so pretty, but a bit eerie. I loved this time of morning, hardly anyone around, and so quiet, having the village to myself, except for the milkman on his electric float. I nearly always passed him just before I reached the village pub, The Chequers. He waved and his dog, Silver, who always ran alongside him, barked hello to me.

  I got back home about 8am after stopping in for breakfast with Nan, as usual, after I finished my round. There didn’t appear to be any signs of life at the flat I noticed, as I wheeled my bike through the front gate. Mum was in a flap because she had been called in to work apparently, and so it was all go whilst she got herself ready and I helped with breakfast and dressed my younger brothers and sisters. Thankfully, she was in such a rush she forgot to have a go at me. Not that she wouldn’t later on.. Now I had all day to worry about what she was going to do about me being a bit late home and making a show of myself in the street to boot.

  Before she left she reminded me to get the washing out of the boiler and put it through the mangle and hang it out, and I had to make sure that Simon went to the local butcher’s to pick up sausages for lunch and the Sunday joint. My Saturday well and truly sorted then.

  I had hoped to meet Yvette in town and go for an espresso in the new coffee bar which had opened on the high street. Not having a phone there was no way I could let her know I couldn’t come, unless I could manage to get down to the phone box before lunch to warn her. Everyone seemed to be getting phones except us, it just wasn’t fair.

  Yvette had wanted to come to our house with Selina, and had got all funny when I said Mum wouldn’t like it and we should meet in The Cadena.

  Actually, you’d have thought they’d have realised they weren’t welcome because they’d both turned up, unexpectedly, on a couple of occasions recently and Mum hadn’t liked it one bit.

  No one with manners visits without an invitation, she told me after they’d left. It was embarrassing, she was so rude to them both, and she went on something rotten at me for inviting them without her permission. It was her house, not mine, and she would be the one to invite guests. Nothing I said would convince her I’d had no idea they were coming. They hadn’t told me. I’d no idea why they wanted to visit all of a sudden. As it was they spent most of the time in the back garden being too loud, giggling and showing off all the time. They didn’t even bother reading the magazines they had with them: Jackie and Fab 208. Mum binned them as soon as they’d gone, in case I was corrupted by their nonsense..

  I’d no idea why they were trying to show off to Mr Digby, it was a bit sad. And of course it gave Mrs Digby a good reason to moan at Mum about me and my ‘cheap’ friends in our miniskirts, flaunting ourselves in front of her innocent Geoffrey. Huh! If only she knew what I knew about her darling Geoffrey. I dearly wanted to tell her.

  Donald Digby, Peg Digby and their mother, take the utmost pleasure in getting me into trouble. Not that I’ve ever done anything wrong, but they spy on me and report stuff to Mum, exaggerating everything, knowing I’ll get hell. Mum always believes them for some reason.

  Once, Mrs Digby caught Mum over the fence, telling her she’d seen Dad in a new three-piece-suit and that Mum had better watch out because ‘men of a certain age’ were usually having an affair when they got new clothes.

  Mr Digby – Geoffrey, the innocent – is a real creep, he makes my flesh crawl. Always leering at me and making weird remarks on the sly. We’ve caught him several times in our garden, peering through the sitting-room window when he thinks we’ve gone out. The whole family’s more than a bit odd.

  After a lot of yelling and some bribery, I managed to get Simon to go shopping so I could cook lunch for when Mum got back at 1pm. I legged it to the phone box before he went, and caught Yvette in the middle of a row with her mum about wearing too much eyeliner and spending all her pocket money on silly magazines.

  She went into a bit of a mood when I said I had to stay in to look after the kids again, and I wondered, as I hung up, if she would send me to Coventry again, like she did the time she got funny with me when two blokes on a Vespa stopped to chat us up outside school, and both of them took more notice of me, as if that was my fault.

  I was hanging out the washing when someone started whistling and shouting what sounded like ‘I love girls with long blonde hair.’

  I looked around but couldn’t see anyone walking up the path beside the houses, so I just got on with making sure I hung the shirts the right way, otherwise Attila the Hun would be on me like a ton of bricks.

  ‘Hello beautiful.’

  I heard a vaguely familiar voice off to my right, and glanced around but couldn’t see anyone. Not that I thought it was meant for me, of course.

  ‘Over here, blondie.’ The male voice sounded quite nice really and I followed the sound, looking upwards to see a very sexy, topless, bronzed specimen with long blond hair, squatting on top of the wall leading up to the flats over the shops.

  My heart skipped a beat and I tried hard not to smile, but I could barely keep the grin off my face. He was talking to me. How about that.

  I looked quickly over at Mrs Digby’s in case she was lurking ready to report back to Gestapo HQ that I was flirting with a half-naked god in the back garden. The coast seemed clear. I smiled and silently cursed myself for doing the housework in scruffy clothes.

  I didn’t have any make-up on and my hair was a mess – trouble is, I’m not supposed to wear make-up anyway. Trust me to meet a a gorgeous boy looking like this, putting the flipping washing out for goodness sakes.

  Standing there with a pair of Mum’s undies in one hand and her br
a in the other, I felt a bit silly as he looked at me and I short-sightedly squinted back trying hard to see his features, hoping my face wasn’t too red. Then I realised he wasn’t alone, there was another boy standing behind him.

  Before I could hide Mum’s undies, the other bloke stepped forward and said, ‘hello again.’

  I realised then it had been him speaking to me all along, not the blond God.

  I felt disappointment for all of two seconds until the boy with the long black hair and the most amazing bronzed muscled chest grabbed my attention.

  He was the one from last night.

  My knees felt like jelly and I could feel the dreaded red hot flush travelling up my neck to my face. I’m never going to be cool and sophisticated. Never ever.

  ‘Are you going to say anything?’ he asked, as the blond boy next to him suddenly stood up, revealing his tight white jeans and bronzed, well-toned chest muscles; I thought I’d just died and gone to heaven. They were both unreal. Wait until I tell you about this Yvette, I thought, you’ll be eaten up.

  ‘Oh, yes, um, hello,’ I stuttered like a moron, mentally kicking myself for not being a bit more confident.

  ‘I’ll leave you two to it then.’ The blond God boy smiled at me, waved and went back up to the flats, leaving the two of us staring at each other in silence.

  The air around me seemed to have a funny tingle in it and I got goose-bumps as I tried to release my gaze from his.

  ‘Broken up for the summer yet?’

  I could hear the kids killing each other inside and I remembered I had put the potatoes on to boil ready for when Mum came back on her lunch break.

  ‘ Um, no, no I haven’t, not yet, but I’m leaving school soon anyway.’

  Now why did I tell him that? Why did I say that? It was like telling him we were moving away. And we were. To Germany. To live with Dad, who has been out there for the last six months working for the Ministry of Defence on attachment to an Army Base in the Ruhr Valley.. The back of beyond if you ask me, I’ll die stuck out there