A Silver Lining

CATRIN COLLIER

A Silver Lining

First published in Great Britain in 1994 by Century

First published in paperback in Great Britain in 2001 by Arrow Books

New paperback edition published in 2006 by Orion Books Ltd

This edition published by Accent Press 2013

Copyright © Catrin Collier 1994

The right of Catrin Collier to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her 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 publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid Glamorgan, CF46 6RY.

ISBN 9781909840584

Catrin Collier was born and brought up in Pontypridd. She lives in Swansea with her husband, three cats and whichever of her children choose to visit.
One Blue Moon 
is the second novel in the highly acclaimed
Hearts of Gold
series.

Works by Catrin Collier

The
Hearts of Gold
series:

Hearts of Gold

One Blue Moon

A Silver Lining

All That Glitters

Such Sweet Sorrow

Past Remembering

Broken Rainbows

Spoils of War

Other series:

Swansea Girls

Brothers and Lovers

(
including
Black-eyed Devils
- QuickReads)

Novels:

One Last Summer

Magda’s Daughter

The Long Road To Baghdad

As Katherine John:

Without Trace

Midnight Murders

Murder of a Dead Man

By Any Other Name

The Amber Knight

Black Daffodil

A Well Deserved Murder

Destruction of Evidence

The Corpse’s Tale
(QuickReads)

Dedication

For all the refugees who came to the valleys in search of a new life, especially my mother, Gerda Jones, nee Salewski

Chapter One

Oil lamps glowed, a straggling line of beacons wavering in the damp wind that whistled and tore through the sodden canvas that tented the market stalls. The cobbled gangway between the trestles that lined Market Square was far too narrow to accommodate the swell of late-night shoppers who spilled continuously into the area from both sides of the town. And not only the town: the lilting speech of those who lived in the multi-stranded valleys above Pontypridd could be heard mingling with the sharper, more commercial accents of the traders and the softer intonations of the townsfolk who were attempting to push their way through the jammed throng.

The air, even beneath the canvas shroud, was thick, heavy with moisture; the atmosphere rich with the eye stinging pungency of paraffin oil, the sour odour of unwashed clothes, and the reek of seasonal nips of whisky and brandy wafting on the tides of the traders’ breath as they called their wares.

‘Last chance for a bargain before Father Christmas comes down the chimney to burn his bum on hot ashes tonight, love. Come on, two a penny. You won’t find cheaper anywhere.’ A tall, thin man with a pockmarked face, shabby clothes and military bearing held up a pair of unevenly hemmed, coarsely woven handkerchiefs.

‘Not today, thanks.’ Alma Moore tucked her auburn curls beneath her home-knitted tam without relinquishing her hold on the cloth purse that contained her wages from both the tailor’s shop where she worked mornings, and the café where she waitressed most nights and weekends.

Once she’d secured her hair she thrust her purse deep into her pocket, burying it securely beneath her hand.

Nearly all the money she carried was earmarked for necessities –rent, coal, and paying something off the ‘tab’ on their endless bill in the corner shop. She knew if she spent the remainder on Christmas cheer for her mother and herself, there’d be nothing left for coals or food at the end of the week. But then –she gripped her purse so tightly that the edges of the coins cut into the palm of her hand –it
was
Christmas. And if she couldn’t treat her mother to a little luxury at Christmas, what did she have to look forward to?

Using her shoulder as a wedge, she nudged and jostled through the dense crowd until she reached an alleyway fringed by an overspill of stalls that led off Market Square. Two minutes later she was outside the old Town Hall that housed the indoor second-hand clothes market.

She forged ahead towards Horton’s stall.

‘Come for your mam’s coat?’ Seventeen-year-old Eddie Powell, resplendent in an almost new blue serge suit that had been knocked down to him for two days’ work in lieu of wages, smiled at her. It was a smile she didn’t return. She couldn’t forget that it had been Eddie’s sixteen-year-old sister Maud who’d captured the heart and hand of Ronnie Ronconi, her ex-employer and ex-boyfriend of more than four years.

‘The coat, and-’ she pulled her purse from her pocket –’I was hoping you’d have a good woollen scarf to go with it. Real wool, mind. None of your cotton or rayon mixes.’

‘We’ve sets of matching gloves and scarves. All brand spanking new,’ Eddie suggested eagerly, scenting a sale in the air. ‘Boss bought them in as specials for Christmas. So many customers came asking he looked around for a supplier. We don’t get many second-hand accessories.’

He was proud of the ‘trade’ word he’d heard Wilf Horton mention and had never used himself before now. He picked up a woollen bundle from the top of an enormous, roughly crafted pine chest behind him. ‘Just feel the quality in this. Go on, feel.’

He thrust the grey cloth into Alma’s blue face. ‘It’s the best machine knit you’ll find anywhere,’ he continued, still imitating his boss’s sales patter. ’A lot smoother than anything that comes off your mam’s needles, and pure wool. Soft wool,’ he said persuasively. ‘Not the scratchy kind that brings you up in red bumps.’

Alma reached out with chilled fingers and tentatively rubbed the cloth.

‘That’s a real crache scarf, just like the nobs on the Common wear.’ Eddie leaned over the counter and she jumped back warily as his mouth hovered close to hers.

‘You won’t find finer than that, not even in there.’ He pointed down the lane where the gleaming electric lights of the Co-op Arcade cast strange elongated patterns over the shiny black surfaces of the pavements behind the stalls. ‘Or even at Gwilym Evans’,’ he added recklessly, conjuring images of the silver and gold tinsel-bedecked windows of the most exclusive and expensive shop Pontypridd had to offer. ‘Go on, take it. Try it. Wrap it around your neck. Think what that will do for your mam on a cold winter’s night,’ he concluded on a hard-sale note, his mind fixed on the shilling bonus Mr Horton had promised him if the takings outside of what had been ‘put by’ on penny a week cards, topped fifteen pounds that day.

Alma didn’t need the sales pitch. She was already envisaging her mother wrapped snugly in the scarf and their old patched quilt, sitting next to the kitchen stove which was blasting out heat in imagination as it was never allowed to do in the cold reality of frugal coal rations. Her mother deserved warm clothes. Particularly on the four days a week she economised by not setting a match to the stove.

‘There’s gloves and hat to match. All the same quality.’ He rubbed his frozen hands together and danced a jig. Centre doorway might be a good spot from a trade point of view, but it played hell with his circulation.

Alma extricated a glove from the bundle Eddie pushed towards her. She pulled the woollen fingers, stretching them, looking for dropped stitches, signs of unfinished seams or loose knitting. There were none. Then she picked up the second glove.

‘This one is bigger than the other.’ She held up the offending garment. ‘And the wool is different. It’s coarser, greasier.’

‘Then try these.’ Eddie reached behind him and withdrew a pair of gloves from another bundle.

‘They’re two right gloves.’ Costly experience had taught Alma every trick the market boys with their second-quality wares had to offer.

‘How about this set, then?’ Undeterred, Eddie opened the chest and produced a new pack from its depths. Hat, scarf and gloves were stitched together with huge tacking stitches in thick brown twine. Alma carefully loosened the threads and went through each piece. She put the hat and gloves to one side but held up the scarf.

‘Dropped stitch in this.’

‘Then swap it with the other one.’ Eddie’s patience was wearing thin; he’d just caught sight of his boss eyeing him suspiciously from the other side of the stall in a way he wouldn’t have if Alma had been old, or ugly.

‘Colour’s not the same.’

‘Tell you what.’ Eddie glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening. ‘I’ll knock it down to you at a special price.’

‘What kind of special price?’

‘For you, two bob the lot. Hat, scarf and gloves.’

‘Two bob!’ Alma tossed the bundle aside in disgust. ‘It’s not worth that. Besides ...’ she dangled the promise of extra trade. ‘It wouldn’t leave me enough to pick up the coat I’ve put by, or buy the jumper my mam needs.’

‘You’ve come for your coat, Alma?’ Wilf pushed Eddie out of his way. ‘Mrs Edwards needs seeing to, boy,’ he ordered brusquely. ‘She’s after a suit for her son, and she wants you to try the jacket to check the size.’

‘Right away, Mr Horton.’ Eddie wasn’t sorry to leave Alma. She might be a looker, but she was nineteen; far too old for him, and boy, was she fussy! No wonder Ronnie had taken off for Italy with Maud.

‘You looking for something besides your coat, Alma?’ Wilf lifted the tips of his fingers to his wrinkled, red veined face, and blew on them.

‘I’d like to buy my mother a scarf, gloves, and if I’ve enough money left over, a jumper, Mr Horton.’

‘Right, let’s see what I can do for you.’ He bent beneath the counter and rummaged among the boxes under the trestles.

‘I’d like the jumper to be the same quality as this, please.’ Alma held up the only perfect scarf Eddie had shown her.

‘You know what to look for. This suit you?’ He held up a mass of purple, green and red wool. ‘Colours ran in the dye batch, but they didn’t affect the quality. It’s lamb’s wool like the scarf. I’ll be with you now, Edith!’ he shouted to a woman who was pushing a man’s shirt under his nose.

‘I want it for a present, Mr Horton,’ Alma retorted icily.

‘That’s what I thought. It’s warm and your mam wouldn’t know the difference,’ he said bluntly, too preoccupied with the buying potential of the customers pressing around his stall to concern himself with Alma’s sensitivity.

‘My mother might be blind, Mr Horton, but that doesn’t mean I’d allow her to walk around looking like something the cat dragged in.’

‘Suit yourself. That one I can do for one and six. Perfect like this –’ he tossed an emerald green pullover at her –’I can’t do for less than five bob, and then I’d be robbing myself. Got your card for the coat?’ Wilf turned his back on Alma and took the shirt from Edith. ’A shilling to you, love, and seeing as how it’s Christmas I’ll throw in a hanky for free. How’s that for a bargain?’

‘I’ll take it, Wilf.’ The woman opened her purse as Wilf threw the shirt and handkerchief at Eddie to be wrapped in newspaper.

Mesmerised, Alma stared at the jumper. It was such a deep, beautiful green. A jumper like that could make even the old black serge skirt she was wearing look good. She brushed her hand lightly against the surface; it was softer than any wool she’d ever touched. But five shillings!

Reluctantly she dropped the jumper on to the counter, and picked up the one that looked as if it had been attacked by a colour-blind artist. Wilf Horton was right: the colouring hadn’t affected the quality. She pulled her card out of her pocket and looked at it. Not that she needed to. She knew exactly how much she owed.

‘Coat was ten bob, less ...’ Wilf took Alma’s card and peered short-sightedly at the numbers scrawled on it. ‘Fifteen weeks at sixpence a week. That leaves half a crown Alma. What do you want to do about the jumper?’

Alma heard the clock on St Catherine’s strike the half hour. Tina Ronconi was covering a double station of tables in the café, but Tina wouldn’t be able to do that for long. Christmas Eve was always busy, and she still had to buy the other things on her list. She clutched the scarf and fingered the multi-coloured pullover.

‘How much for everything?’ She comforted herself with the thought that it cost nothing to ask.

‘This pullover, the scarf, hat and gloves?’

‘The lot.’

‘You broken a set there?’ Wilf looked suspiciously at the garments she was holding.

‘The gloves that went with this scarf were odd.’

‘Call it five bob with what you owe on the coat.’

‘I don’t want charity,’ Alma snapped, pride stinging.

Wilf sighed. You just couldn’t win with some people. It was open knowledge in the town that Alma Moore and her mother had lived hand to mouth since Ronnie Ronconi had left Pontypridd for Italy. Alma couldn’t even afford bargain prices, but she wasn’t past holding up business to haggle, and now, when he was offering her goods at a loss just to get rid of her, she wouldn’t take them.

‘That’s my price, take it or leave it.’

‘She’ll take it. And the green jumper.’

Alma whirled round to see Bobby Thomas, who collected her rent, holding a ten-bob note high in his hand. Hot, rum-laden breath wafted into her face as she nodded briefly before turning back to Wilf. Anxious to avoid a scene she pulled out her purse. ‘I’ll take everything except the green jumper, Mr Horton,’ she said hastily, fear of Bobby and the propositions he’d put to her every rent day since Ronnie had left making her reckless. She dug into her purse and produced a couple of two shilling pieces, and four joeys.

‘Eddie, wrap for the lady!’ Wilf ordered.

‘And the green jumper.’

Wilf looked from Bobby to Alma, wondering if Alma had found herself a new fancy man. If so, the few people who bothered to talk to her now would soon stop. Bobby

Thomas had a wife born and bred in East Street, who was five months gone in the family way.

‘Thank you Mr Horton. Hope your wife likes the jumper, Bobby,’ Alma said loudly for Wilf Horton’s benefit as she walked away from the stall. She pretended not to hear Bobby calling out, asking her to wait. The last thing she needed was to get involved in a conversation with a drunk on the market. With Ronnie gone from Pontypridd people were saying enough about her as it was.

Trying to concentrate on the task in hand, Alma fought her way from the clothes to the butcher’s market. Her mother had scraped together the ingredients for a cake weeks ago, but they hadn’t been able to run to what was needed for a pudding. There was no way she could afford a chicken, and now that Ronnie had left she wouldn’t be getting one as a Christmas bonus as she had done in previous years. Christmas! Her mother was looking forward to it because it was the only day of the year Alma didn’t have to work, but what was the point in celebrating when they couldn’t even afford to buy themselves a decent Christmas dinner?

Clutching the carrier bag Eddie had given her in one hand, and fingering her lighter, slimmer purse with the other, she pictured the coins in her mind’s eye. Sixpence for a tree. That had to be bought no matter what, and sweets to hang among the old paper decorations, made and carefully treasured from year to year. It didn’t matter that her mother couldn’t see the tree; she would be able to smell it. She wondered how many boiled sweets she would get from Mrs Walker’s stall for sixpence. Then there was fruit. Two of those bright paper-wrapped oranges, two apples and some nuts: that would be at least another four pence. She was already into next week’s rent money, and that was without meat.

‘Bag of ends for four pence! Come on Missus, just what you need for Boxing Day when your old man is growling with his belly stretched by Christmas dinner.’ William

Powell, Maud Powell’s cousin –Alma felt surrounded by Powells, she couldn’t seem to get away from them no matter which way she turned –was standing on a box behind Charlie the Russian’s butcher’s stall.

‘How about it, Alma?’ he shouted. ‘Bag of ends for four pence?’