The Girl From Penny Lane (25 page)

Kitty leaned into the hedge and felt about. Her fingers closed round the eggs . . . two, three, four . . . and she backed out again, bringing three eggs with her. She would leave one for the little hen, so that she laid there again rather than wandering off and forcing Kitty to wander after her.

It was a bright morning; Kitty crossed the orchard, stopping by a particularly fine bush apple. She tested the fruit, but they still weren’t ripe. Nevertheless she picked one and bit; sharp juice flooded her mouth and the crispness of the green-tinted flesh was good. She ate the apple, flung the core into the long grass and then went back to the house. She went into the kitchen and carried the basket carefully over to the low stone sink. Most of the eggs were clean and smooth, but one had chicken-dung all over it. Maldwyn, easing fried eggs out of the pan, grinned at her as she wiped the dirty egg clean.

‘Ever made bramble jelly?’ he asked. ‘I thought we’d go after blackberries tomorrow, then you can sell bramble jelly when we need all the eggs the ’ens lay.’

‘I made blackberry and apple last year, but it didn’t go too well,’ Kitty said, putting the cleaned egg back in the basket with its fellows. ‘Do they prefer jelly, then?’

‘Yess indeed; no pips, see? If you’ve false teeth a reg’lar nuisance are berry pips. We could tek our tea with us, go over the ’ills a ways.’

Kitty, agreeing, smiled to herself. Seventy-three Maldwyn might now be, but he was a child in some things. He adored picnics, always insisted on food being carried out to the hayfields in early summer, and later to the harvest fields. And he still didn’t seem more than forty or forty-five to her as he limped about the farm, doing his work.

Thinking about his age made her remember the great will-making which had taken place in the market town of Wrexham about a year ago. Maldwyn had been right, they had all taken a liking to Hywel Hughes, a tiny fat gnome of a man, cherry-cheeked and cheerful, who had drawn up the will and had it witnessed by two passers-by. One witness was a soldier, home on leave from the army, the other a bright-faced lad from one of the hill farms at the back of the town. Maldwyn had insisted that strangers should be witnesses because he didn’t want his nephew being told before time about the will.

‘We don’t want no trouble,’ he had said gruffly. ‘Try and persuade me to change my mind, Elwyn would . . . greedy for money, see? No love of the land, no fondness for me, but greedy. Once the deed’s done, though, and I’m gone . . .’

‘We’ll ’ave trouble, I’ll stake me ’at on it,’ Kitty had said privately to Johnny later that same day. ‘That old Elwyn, ’e won’t lerrit rest, ’e’ll come naggin’ at us.’

Johnny shrugged.

‘Don’t matter,’ he said laconically. ‘A will’s a will, see? A legal docyment what you can’t overturn, that’s a will.’

But right now the pony must be put in the trap, the trap must be loaded, and she must be off. Kitty loved market days, and was delighted when Johnny brought the pony and trap into the yard, all tacked up and ready to go. Johnny was grand, she thought affectionately. He did everything he could to make her life easier. At just seventeen he was tall and gangly, stronger than he looked but still with the boyish grin and the twinkle which had taken her fancy so strongly when they had first met.

‘Ready, Kit? Put them eggs aboard, an’ the beans, an’ you’re ready for the off. ’Ave you ’ad your breakfast yet?’

‘Not yet. I’ll gerrit down me quick, though.’

They ate breakfast, enjoying every mouthful. The tea was a bit weak; Maldwyn said they were almost out of tea and Kitty must be sure to buy some before she left Corwen. Just as she was about to swing herself up into the driving seat of the trap he pressed some money into her hand.

‘Buy yourself a bite o’ dinner,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t go ’ungry till you gets ’ome, Kitty lass.’

Kitty took the money and gave him a hug.

‘You’re a prince, Mal,’ she said. ‘Oh, we does love you, Johnny an’ me! I won’t knit you another muffler – can’t say fairer than that, eh?’

Maldwyn laughed and rumpled her hair. That first winter he had uncomplainingly worn the uneven, holey muffler which Kitty had painfully knitted for him, only admitting how useless it was when she had spent her egg money on a beautifully thick one, on sale at a local clothing emporium. Since then, mufflers had been a joke between them.

‘You can make me some bramble jelly, instead,’ he called as she swung herself into the driving seat. ‘Awful fond o’ bramble jelly I am!’

Soon, Kitty and the little brown pony were jogging along the road, heading for the town. She could see over most of the hedges from her lofty perch and was struck, as so often before, by the beauty of her surroundings. To her left the high hills were ablaze with the rich purple of heather and the richer gold of the gorse. The trees were still in full and glorious leaf and when the road crossed a small stone bridge the stream beneath it reflected the innocent blue of a cloudless sky. It was hard to look back down the years – gawd, it was fully three years since she had run away from Paradise Court – and remember her life in those far-off days, the grim, grey hopelessness of it. It was almost impossible to realise that only fifty or sixty miles away – she was still vague over distances – people lived in conditions which she now considered a hell on earth, not even loving one another or taking care of the children of their bodies, but resenting them, beating them, sometimes, she knew, killing them. She often wondered what her mother had made of her sudden flight, whether anyone had searched for her, but had concluded that it scarcely mattered. If her mother had informed the police, the search had never extended to Corwen, or indeed to North Wales. After all, she had never pretended to be anyone other than Kitty Drinkwater and the name had never raised an eyebrow down here.

The road curved round to the left and Tilly followed it, her hoofbeats muffled by the soft road-dust. Presently, however, they met the cobbles of the town and Tilly slowed her brisk trot to a walk. The little grey town was beginning to fill up already, some stalls were set up, others in the process of erection. Kitty made her way to the market yard and tied Tilly to a tethering post. She watered her with a handy bucket, fed her a couple of apples and then began to carry her goods to her table, next to Mrs Dewi Jones’s fancier stall.

Customers wandered along, poking, measuring. They exchanged jokes, gossiped, tasted butter or a piece of broken biscuit. Kitty sold a dozen eggs to a woman in an old-fashioned black cloak who asked kindly after Maldwyn and said she’d call one of these fine days and had Kitty seen the travelling fishmonger this morning?

The day jogged on its familiar course. Kitty bargained briskly, laughed a lot, swapped a bag of her string beans for a pot of heather honey. The sun rose in the sky and wasps buzzed round Mrs Dewi and had to be repulsed. They were after Mrs Dewi’s plums, her big early Victorias, so Kitty swatted wasps with a folded newspaper and bought some of the plums as a treat for Maldwyn – he only grew the small purple ones – and planned plum jam, or perhaps a plum pie.

The minister came up to her stall and congratulated her on her butter. ‘Best in Corwen,’ he joked. ‘Well, not bad for a stranger, eh, Mrs Ellis-Wynn?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t call her a stranger, Reverend,’ Mrs Ellis-Wynn said. ‘Speaks the Welsh like a native she do.’

And Kitty smiled and sold the last of her eggs and was totally, blissfully happy.

It was growing dusk when Kitty reined up in front of the farmhouse again. Lights twinkled warmly from the kitchen. She could hear the murmur of voices, see movement through the thin checked curtains. She climbed down a trifle wearily, the heavy bag with the money in it clutched in one hand. They would be very pleased, Mal and Johnny, she had done better than ever before, sold out! She knew she should get Tilly out of the trap and rub her down before she did anything else, but she always let the men know she was home. No sense in not doing that; it meant Johnny would come out and help her and Maldwyn would begin to dish up. She had eaten a beef and mustard sandwich and drunk a pint of buttermilk earlier, but that had been hours ago and right now she was starving hungry again.

She looped Tilly’s harness round the tethering post and pushed open the back door.

Johnny was sitting by the fireplace. He looked up, startled, when she entered the room. He was white as a sheet and looked ill.

‘Johnny? What’s wrong? What’s happened?’

She knew something was wrong, the whole room reeked of it.

‘Oh, Kit . . . come and sit down.’

Johnny was on his feet, coming across to her, concern on his face, his eyes red and swollen. Kitty stepped back.

‘Maldwyn? Where’s Mal? Why isn’t he here?’

But she knew. Knew as soon as she saw Johnny’s red eyes and the pallor of him, the stricken expression on his face.

‘Oh Kitty, love, Mal’s gone. It were a stroke, the doctor said. Not long after you left, queen. Mal’s dead.’

After that, everything happened in a sort of fog. The minister came and he, the doctor and Johnny arranged the funeral. The work went on. Patch slunk round the house close on Kitty’s heels; they heard her whining in her kennel after they’d gone to bed, so Kitty went down and fetched Patch up to her room. She and the dog curled up on the bed and comforted one another in their loss.

Neighbours came. Maldwyn had been well liked, loved even, for his generosity, his strength which he would lend to any in need, his strong, abiding faith. Everyone offered help to the children but Johnny and Kitty knew that what they needed was hard work, to get them over this dreadful, sad time.

‘I know ’e was old,’ Kitty said to Johnny after the funeral and the funeral tea were over. ‘I know ’e was jest an ordinary bloke, in a way. But we did love ’im, didn’t we, Johnny?’

‘’Course we did; an’ ’e loved us,’ Johnny said gruffly. ‘Mal loved everyone, wanted the best for everyone. Now ’e’s gone we gorra do the best we can for ourselves an’ the farm.’

There was no word from the relatives, but Johnny got the will out anyway. He and Kitty read it anxiously and agreed that it was clear as a bell; they had the farm.

Then a week after the funeral they had visitors. Kitty and Johnny were sitting by the fire, having eaten a quick meal. They were both very tired, for even with his lameness to contend with, Maldwyn had always done his share and more of the farm and house work.

Kitty got up and went over to the door as soon as the knock sounded. She thought it was a neighbour, popping in to see how they were getting on, but it was not. It was Elwyn Ap Thomas, his wife and his lawyer, Mr Brindley Travers.

They did not wait to be asked in but entered as of right and seated themselves by the fire even whilst Kitty, thoroughly discomposed, was stammering out an invitation to them to sit down.

‘Mr Maldwyn Evans came to me to make a will,’ Mr Travers said, very dry and precise and cutting across Kitty’s words without compunction. ‘But he made no will because I persuaded him that it was not in his family’s best interests. Since, therefore, Mr Evans died intestate, or without making a will,’ he added the last bit with a malevolent glance at the two young people, staring at him, ‘the estate and all his possessions go to his next of kin, Mr Elwyn lawn Ap Thomas, my client. And this means that you young people are guilty of trespass.’

‘There is a will,’ Johnny said quietly. ‘Mr Evans didn’t like your attitude, Mr Travers; he didn’t trust you, either. So we went to Wrexham, where Mr Evans made his will at the office of another lawyer, a Mr Hywel Hughes, where it was duly signed and witnessed. I have the will here if you would like to see it.’

Kitty had never heard Johnny talk without his Liverpool twang before. She stared at him, astonished, as he turned away and began to fumble in the dresser drawer. Fancy Johnny talking like a toff!

Johnny found the will and held it out to Mr Travers. The lawyer snatched it, read it, handed it to his client, who read it also. Then Elwyn Ap Thomas made as if to hand it to Johnny – and instead, with an exclamation of impatience, threw the document straight into the heart of the red-hot stove.

‘A tissue of lies; a forgery,’ he said shrilly. ‘The fire’s the best place for it! Now I repeat what my legal adviser has told you; you are trespassing. We will give you one hour to get out of this house and renounce all claims to it. If you refuse to go, Mr Travers and I intend to call the police.’

His words went unheeded, for the moment at any rate. Before Kitty realised what he intended, Johnny had dived at the fire, shoving his arm into the red-hot heart of it. As he did so he gave a cry of sheer agony . . . and even as Kitty dived on him to drag him away, Elwyn ran over to him and actually tried to wedge his skinny bottom against the boy so that Johnny was forced deeper into the fire.

‘Let him burn if that’s what he wants!’ he shouted. ‘He’s a liar and a thief – liars and thieves should burn!’

But Patch soon put paid to that. She snarled once and flew for Elwyn. As Kitty dragged Johnny, screaming, away from the fire, Elwyn began to scream in his turn – Patch was attached to his leg. Kitty saw the white teeth begin to redden round the edges and felt only an enormous satisfaction, a dreadful, deep hatred.

Mrs Ap Thomas was crying, stammering something, the lawyer was contenting himself with threats. Kitty got Johnny to the sink and began to pump cold water over his arm: she had heard Maldwyn say it was how he had treated his burns when he’d fallen back and sat, for a moment, on top of the stove.

‘Shoved my bum into a bucket of cold water I did,’ he had told her. ‘Maybe not what a doctor would do, but it worked a treat, lass! Better I did feel in no time, no time at all.’

But Johnny’s burns were bad, really bad. Kitty took a look and shuddered. She wouldn’t let him take his arm out from under the constant stream, then suddenly he was pulled away from her. Elwyn, his face contorted, was dragging at the boy’s shoulder.