making a weekend of it. On Sunday at noon the shrimp and winkle man had called by on his weekly rounds, his horse pulling a cart laden with shrimp and winkles, cockles, whelks and mussels. Bunches of watercress and sticks of flowery green-tipped celery were laid out next to the molluscs on a white cloth, providing the better-off residents of Oak Street with a feast for Sunday tea.
“Rachel’s got an eye for a nudge and a winkle,” Nat said, grinning at May before pushing a pin into the shell of a particularly tenacious whelk. Rachel loved these flirty exchanges with her son-in-law. Nat was always having a laugh but while his easy male attractiveness was impossible to ignore, he reserved his most loving looks for Sarah.
That evening, Sunday 19 January, the family went into the front room and gathered round the wireless, listening to the tunes played by Radio Luxembourg, tapping their feet and sometimes standing up to dance, cheek to cheek, to the accompaniment of Fred Astaire’s romantic song from the new movie Top Hat. They hummed along to the heart-tugging notes of “These Foolish Things” that floated into the room from Leslie Hutchinson’s creamy voice. The West Indian singer known as Hutch was a glamorous figure whose voice, according to the popular press, had attracted the admiration of the Prince of Wales himself. As Hutch sang of the scent of gardenia perfume and the taste of wild strawberries, May’s thoughts drifted away from the reality of cold winter days to dreams of a life of romance. She could not help noticing Nat’s eyes resting on the figure of his sleepy wife in the chair opposite.
As the song came to an end Nat went over to the brown wooden set and twirled the dial, watching the small line flickering hesitantly along the concentric coloured circles visible through the glass window at the front. Passing by Florence, Fécamp, Paris and Stuttgart, the little needle arrived at the point marked “Home Service.” The leading BBC broadcaster Stuart Hibberd was speaking. George V’s life was moving peacefully towards its close. They were barely able to believe their ears. No one had realised the full seriousness of the king’s illness. Last year’s silver jubilee celebrations and George V’s recent Christmas broadcast had lulled people into the belief that national life was entering a settled phase and that the long years of the Depression were a thing of the past.
Big Ben tolled with the passing of every quarter of an hour, and with each set of chimes a further bulletin on the king’s health was made. Rachel made everyone a cup of tea but the plate of homemade cinnamon buns sat untouched beside the wireless. Sarah put some more coal on the cinders of the fire before going to lie down for a while. The others remained close by the wireless set, chatting and reading a little, and all the while listening out for the next bulletin from Buckingham Palace. At the sound of the sombre voice they would all stare fixedly at the set, as if the disembodied speech was coming from a visible person and not from an inanimate brown box. A further two and a half hours elapsed before another even deeper voice came across the airwaves; beginning with the words, “It is with great sorrow …”
They all knew what Sir John Reith, the director-general of the BBC, was going to say next.
So much death was in the air. Only three days earlier May had read of the grand funeral plans for Rudyard Kipling. Florence would be sad to know that her favourite storyteller had died. Perhaps May could follow Mr. Hooch’s practice of reading aloud some of those magical stories to Florence. The idea of a bedtime story being a time to develop friendship and affection appealed greatly to May, and perhaps the experience would help to excise the memories of Duncan’s bedtime nips.
Ten days after the king’s death May was once again given a couple of days off. The Blunt family and the Cuckmere staff had been equally shaken by the news. But when Mrs. Cage had remarked to Sir Philip how at least the Prince of Wales was a first-rate successor to good old King George, Sir Philip had replied rather ominously that he hoped she was right. Oak Street had been equally curious about the character of the new king.
“He really cares, Edward does,” said Rachel with conviction. “He’s got the welfare of us all in his