A Silver Lining (12 page)

‘Are Uncle Evan and Charlie with them?’ William joined him in the doorway.

‘Some hope of seeing them in the middle of that lot, even if they are.’

‘What’s been happening, Uncle Huw?’ Will shouted to Huw Griffiths.

‘What we expected, a bust-up.’ Huw Griffiths stood back from the crowd of marching men, close to the café door. ‘We’re escorting everyone from out of town to the station before any more heads get broken.’ He nodded to one of the younger constables who moved into the middle of the road and directed the marching men to the right, into station yard.

‘Have you seen Dad or Charlie?’ Eddie asked.

‘I saw them, but I’ve no idea where they are now.’ Huw pushed back his helmet to reveal a massive, swollen bruise on his forehead.

‘I bet that hurts,’ Tony said as he joined them.

‘It does, but not as much as the one I gave back.’

‘To one of Mosley’s Blackshirts?’ Will asked.

‘To your next-door neighbour Viv Richards, who was throwing out punches alongside them,’ Huw answered sourly. ‘That little fracas has really sorted out the black from the white sheep of this town.’

Andrew paused before his apartment. He bent his head and stared at the door for a moment before fumbling for his keys. It took him a full minute to find the right one. Lurching forward, he attempted to insert it into the lock.

He missed –tried –and failed again. A door opened behind him. His neighbour peeped through the crack, her sleep-numbed face topped by a garish pink and green chiffon scarf wrapped round a mass of iron curlers.

‘Good evening,’ he slurred, his voice thickened by beer and whisky. The door slammed. ‘Bloody neighbours,’ he muttered without really knowing what he was saying. The truth of the matter was, even in his fuddled state he did care what the neighbours thought of him. But then London wasn’t Pontypridd. No one ever spoke, not even to pass the time of day. Never said as much as ‘Hello’, ‘Good morning’, or ‘Good-night’. The only consolation was they probably didn’t speak to each other either. But then who would want to speak to him, he thought despondently, if they knew about his son?

Pushing a vision of the baby from his mind he swayed on his feet and squinted at his door again. It seemed to be moving. Normally he stuck to one, or at the most two beers in an evening, but this evening the pace had been set by his colleagues and he had found it difficult to resist the pressure to join in their rounds. They’d gone out to celebrate someone’s impending marriage.

He scarcely knew the bridegroom, but that didn’t matter. It had seemed a good idea to go with the crowd after work instead of going home to Bethan.

He dived forward, dropping the coat which he had folded and slung over one shoulder. This time, more by luck than judgement, the key homed into the lock. He turned it and the door swung open. Scraping his coat from the floor he fell into the hallway. Switching on the light, he looked out to make sure he’d left nothing behind, then pulling out his key he unintentionally slammed the door noisily behind him.

He stood for a moment bracing himself, expecting a wail from the baby. When none came, he breathed a sigh of relief and opened the door to the living room. It was in darkness.

He switched on the lamps and looked around. The fire had been banked down for the night and the guard hooked into place. The hearth was swept clean, the tiled fireplace sparkling, the cushions plumped up on the sofa. A vision of perfect domestic bliss; not much evidence of the luxury that came with the kind of wealth he aspired to, but all order and cleanliness. Damn Bethan for making him feel guilty, even now when he was falling down drunk!

He threw his coat and hat on the sofa and backed out of the door, hitting his shoulder painfully on the jamb. Cursing, he went into the bathroom, reached for the tooth mug and dropped it. It shattered on the tiled floor. He salvaged his toothbrush from the mess, rinsed it under the tap and scrubbed his teeth. He ran a sink full of cold water and plunged his face into it, soaking the front of his hair, but it didn’t do any good. The room still revolved around him when he pulled out the plug.

Bethan lay in bed and listened to Andrew moving around the flat. From the curses and sounds of shattering glass she knew something was wrong. When he’d telephoned earlier to say he’d be late, he’d mentioned something about a stag party, but she didn’t even recognise the name of the groom, and she’d realised then that he was simply making excuses again.

It hurt knowing that he’d rather spend an evening with strangers than with her, but she hadn’t protested. Merely told him to have a good time. After he’d hung up, she scraped the dinner she’d prepared into the bin and went to bed. Not that she’d slept.

Dr Floyd, Andrew’s superior, had also telephoned earlier in the evening to ask if she’d decided where to put the baby. If she hadn’t, he knew of a suitable place in the West Country, and could arrange an introduction to the matron. Uncertain whether or not Andrew had spoken to Dr Floyd, she’d thanked him for his concern, told him the situation would soon be resolved and hung up.

But as she listened to Andrew retching in the bathroom she knew it wasn’t going to be resolved soon –or ever –unless she did something to resolve it.

She left the bed and wrapped her blue silk dressing gown around herself. Heart pounding, she padded softly towards the bathroom. Andrew hadn’t closed the door.

He was sitting on the side of the bath, the shattered mug on the floor at his feet, his head in his hands, tears oozing between his fingers.

She stepped back quickly, and went into the kitchen. Filling the kettle she put it on the gas stove to boil, then ground a handful of coffee beans. It was later than she’d thought. Three in the morning. Andrew was on duty at eight, and he’d have to be sober by then.

The door swung open and she started, almost dropping the coffee pot.

‘I was making you some coffee,’ she said apologetically. ‘I thought you’d need it.’

‘You don’t have to wait hand and foot on me.’ He kicked out a chair from beneath the kitchen table and sat on it.

‘I know, it’s just that –’

‘You think I’m incapable?’

‘No.’ Her hand shook as she emptied the drawer of the grinder into the coffee pot. She looked at him and realised that as the result of his anger, or his retching, or possibly a combination of both, he wasn’t as drunk as she’d thought. ‘We need to talk, Andrew,’ she said, grasping the opportunity.

‘There’s no point. You know my feelings about the –’

‘I’m sorry,’ she broke in hastily, not wanting to hear the cold, clinical adjectives he used to describe her son. ‘Please, I just need more time.’

‘I could give you all the time in the world; it wouldn’t make any damned difference!’

The kettle hissed on the stove. She didn’t answer him because she knew he was right. Time wouldn’t make any difference. In fact it would probably only serve to strengthen the bond that had grown between her and the baby.

Andrew sat back and stared at her. It was the first time he’d looked at his wife, really looked at her, since the day the baby had been born. The light silk gown clung to her waist and hips, flaring out around her legs. The creamy lace collar highlighted what little colour there was in her face. Her dark hair gleamed, waved, shining and freshly brushed. He could even smell her perfume. She certainly hadn’t ‘let herself go’, he allowed grudgingly, as he felt the faint stirrings of a desire that had lain dormant for what suddenly seemed like far too long.

She looked clean, wholesome –and so very different from the grubby, peroxide blonde showgirls who had joined his party for supper.

He reached out and pulled her close to him. Her dressing gown brushed against his cheek as he clung to her. Emotions he’d held in check since the baby’s birth flooded back, liberated by a sudden, overwhelming pang of pure lust. He was beset by an uncontrollable urge to lose himself and all his problems in her; yet at the same time he felt an acute sense of loss for the warm, loving familiarity he associated with the old pre-maternal Bethan.

Feelings he sensed were now beyond recapture.

‘We had so much,’ he rose and caressed her face, cradling it close to his chest. ‘Don’t destroy it, darling. Please, I need you ...’

The warmth of his fingers seared her flesh through the light silk. She had prayed that he would come to her for months, never dreaming that it would be like this, with him pleading –and half drunk.

‘I’m ...’ she looked down into his deep brown eyes and the pain she saw mirrored in their depths touched a raw nerve of conscience. He closed his mouth over hers. She steeled herself to return his kiss, suppressing her revulsion at the smell of stale tobacco smoke and beer that clung to his breath.

‘Bethan,’ he murmured when he finally released her. ‘It could always be like this, if only ...’

The hiss of the kettle turned to a high-pitched whistle. She broke away from him, not wanting to hear his "if onlys", wishing with all her might that their problems would fade away, but knowing they wouldn’t.

Not until she finally gave in and handed her son over to an institution.

She switched off the gas and poured boiling water into the coffee pot. She sensed Andrew watching her, but she couldn’t, she simply couldn’t, bring herself to look at him. As soon as she’d made his coffee she returned to the bedroom, closing the door behind her before getting into bed.

She needed time to think, to prepare herself for the arguments she knew he’d confront her with in the morning, but he gave her no time. He followed her, slumped on the edge of the bed and stripped off his clothes. He tumbled down beside her and planted a kiss on her cheek. She opened her arms to him, hoping he wouldn’t say any more. It was easier to cope without words.

What followed wasn’t lovemaking. Not on her part. It was grim, mechanical, loveless sex. She sensed Andrew was using her to forget his problems, just as he’d used drink earlier. It was as simple as that. She knew as he pierced her body with his own that he would never have contemplated making love to her if he had been sober. That it was a combination of the drink and some other woman, probably a nightclub dancer or singer who had momentarily aroused his interest, that she had to thank for his attentions.

Andrew fell asleep while he was still on top of her. She rolled him over. He lay on his back, arms outstretched, insensible to her presence and to the world. She envied him his unconsciousness as she lay quietly beside him, remembering ... and thinking.

In the hours that followed, somewhere high above the clouds that blanketed London, dawn broke. The gloom in the bedroom lightened from dark to pale grey. Indistinct shapes of bedroom furniture crystallised and became recognisable.

Bethan turned on her side and watched her husband as he slept. His handsome features relaxed, his lips slightly parted, his hair ruffled, falling low over his forehead.

Drunk, careless of her feelings, too weak to cope with their child –she loved him with all her heart. Would always love him. But she also loved another. One who had no one else, and who needed her more.

Chapter Seven

‘What do you reckon?’ Viv Richards paced the cell in the basement of Pontypridd police station where he, Evan, Billy and Charlie had been held for the past two hours. ‘Charge us, or let us off with a caution?’

Neither Evan Powell nor Billy answered him. Billy sat slumped in the corner, nursing his battered head in his hands. Evan was kneeling on the stone floor next to the bunk on which the police had dumped Charlie’s semiconscious figure.

‘Well they can’t do much to us, can they?’ Viv argued. ‘After all it was provocation. It would have been a peaceful meeting if it hadn’t been for the police.’

‘The police? It was those bloody Blackshirts,’ Billy began heatedly.

‘Considering no one was listening to what they had to say...’

‘They have nothing to say that’s of any interest to us in the valleys.’

‘Of course they do!’ Viv contradicted him vehemently. ’We’re working men with no work, aren’t we? There were enough of those in Germany before Herr Hitler took over and look at the difference Fascism has made to their lives. We won the Great War, but they’re the ones with the work, houses and if what I’ve heard is right, even cars. You won’t find any bloody means tests, starvation wages or depression over there!’

‘We’ll have less of that language or you’ll be facing more than one charge, Richards,’ a constable’s voice blasted into the cell from the corridor outside.

‘If life’s so grand over there, why don’t you ... go and live there?’ Billy demanded irately, only just stopping himself from swearing.

‘I would if I could ...’

‘Doctor!’ the same officious voice announced sharply as a key grated the lock.

Evan looked up to see Doctor John, Bethan’s father-in-law, follow a constable into the cell.

‘Everyone who’s fit outside,’ the constable said gruffly.

Viv Richards immediately stepped out into the corridor. The doctor walked over to Billy and prodded a swollen cut above his eye.

‘Does that hurt?’

‘Yes.’

‘And this?’

‘Yes.’

‘Follow my finger with your eyes.’

‘Nothing seriously wrong with this one,’ Doctor John pronounced a few moments later.

‘Outside,’ the constable commanded.

‘Mr Powell, isn’t it?’ Evan heard the contempt in the doctor’s voice.

‘It is,’ Evan lifted his chin defiantly.

‘Are you hurt?’

‘Just bruised.’ Evan rose stiffly to his feet. The full force of one of the Blackshirt’s punches had landed on his chest. Every time he breathed he felt as though a knife was being twisted between his ribs.

‘Strip off and I’ll take a look.’

‘It’s nothing.’ Evan would rather put up with his discomfort than submit to an examination by the man.

‘Then outside,’ the constable directed brusquely.

‘I’m concerned about my friend,’ Evan protested.

‘He’s the only one not facing any charges,’ the constable volunteered to the doctor.

‘Don’t worry, Mr Powell. I’ll take care of him,’ Dr John reassured him coldly.

Hearing voices, Charlie opened his eyes. He looked at Evan.

‘Tell the family where I am,’ Evan whispered as the constable gripped the top of his arm ready to haul him away. ‘All of them. And tell them not to worry,’ he added wryly, remembering the punch he had let fly that had floored the young copper.

It was as much as Charlie could do to nod agreement as he swung his legs to the floor.

‘Charlie?’ Tony stared in horror at the apparition hovering in the doorway of the café. One sleeve of the Russian’s overcoat was hanging off, attached to the shoulder only by the lining. A white bandage, only marginally lighter in colour than his face, was wrapped low around his forehead, completely covering his left eye.

Dried blood streaked his blond hair and the left-hand side of his face, his lower lip was split and swollen, the shredded skin already turning a dark, bruised blue.

‘Are Eddie and William here?’ he mumbled, looking around the café with his uncovered eye.

‘They’re in the back. They’ve been looking for you. Alma!’ Tony called out urgently as Charlie walked unsteadily forward.

‘Bloody hell, what happened to you?’ William dropped the cards he was holding in a fan, face up on the table much to Glan Richards’ delight.

‘Here, sit down.’ Eddie pulled a chair out close to the fire. ‘Can I get you something?’ Wanting to ask after his father, but afraid of the answer he’d get, he tried to remember what Charlie preferred. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

‘I think he needs something stronger than tea.’ Tony appeared with a small glass of amber-coloured liquid.

Alma followed with a bowl of cold water and a cloth. ‘I’m all right.’ Despite his protestation Charlie took the glass Tony offered.

‘Where’s Uncle Evan?’ William asked.

‘And my father?’ Glan Richards demanded.

‘They’re holding six men including Evan and Mr Richards until the magistrates’ court opens tomorrow morning. They were about to charge them when they let me go.’ Charlie jerked his head to one side as Alma dabbed at the dried blood on his cheek.

‘I’m only trying to clean it up, it’s still bleeding,’ she protested.

‘That’s because the doctor reopened it when he dressed it,’ Charlie replied, pain making him even terser than usual.

Rebuffed, she wrung the cloth out and handed it to him. All she could think of was the gossip, and her outcast status. Feeling more like a leper than ever, she picked up the bowl and returned to the kitchen.

‘What are they charging them with?’ Glan asked.

‘No doubt we’ll find out tomorrow.’

‘What happened?’ William demanded, wanting to hear all the gory details.

‘There was a fight.’

‘You don’t have to tell me. Red Dai started it.’ Glan clenched his fists as though he was ready to take on the entire Communist party single-handed.

‘Billy did when he attacked a Blackshirt.’

‘Billy from Dad’s gang?’

Charlie nodded. ‘The other Blackshirts moved in –’

‘And of course everyone went to Billy’s aid,’ William chimed in derisively. ‘Even Uncle Evan who’d normally walk a mile out of his way to avoid a fight. And he calls me hot-headed.’

‘Did Dad get hurt?’ Now it was Eddie who looked as though he was ready to take on the world.

‘No, but he hit a policeman.’

‘A policeman?’

‘He meant to hit a Blackshirt,’ Charlie explained briefly.

‘And my father?’ Glan persisted; wishing anyone other than Charlie was sitting there. It was easier to get money out of the dole than words out of Charlie.

‘I only know they’re holding him.’

‘What will they do to Dad, Charlie?’ Eddie ventured, dreading the answer. ‘They can’t put him away, can they?’

‘I don’t know Eddie,’ Charlie replied slowly. ‘I really don’t know.’

At half-past five the milk cart rattled past the apartment block and the baby began to whimper. Bethan had been lying in bed, awake, waiting for the cry. Carefully, so as not to disturb Andrew, she stole from between the sheets and out of the bed. Picking up her nightdress and dressing gown from the floor she crept into the bathroom to wash her hands before making up the baby’s feed.

She put the kettle on to boil, then went into the nursery. He was lying just as she’d left him the night before, on his back in the bottom of the cot, his eyes open but unfocused as he made the soft mewing noises that normally preceded his cry.

She lowered the side of the cot and lifted him out, cuddling him close as she laid a rubber sheet over his eiderdown. Despite Edmund’s lack of response she took her time over changing him: tickling his tummy, kissing his hand, reciting the same nursery rhymes and Welsh words of endearment that her grandmother had sung to her.

When she’d finished she picked him up again and left him to kick on the floor while she took the soiled nappy to the bucket she kept outside on the balcony. After washing her hands yet again, she returned with his bottle and settled into the comfortable rocking chair that she and Andrew had bought together in that happier time, when it had not occurred to either of them that the child they were expecting would be born any way other than perfect.

The baby fell asleep in her arms before he finished half of the four ounces of milk. Usually she left him, but today was different. The events of the night preoccupied her.

The late-night conversation and the lacklustre sex that had followed made her strangely reluctant to face Andrew. So for once she remained in her chair, quietly rocking the sleeping baby, wishing some miracle could make him well and strong.

At six o’clock the baby went rigid in her arms.

She knew what to do. Fighting the urge to panic she rushed into the bathroom and ran a sinkful of warm water. She plunged him into it, clothes and all, careful to hold his head above the water.

‘Convulsions?’

She didn’t look away from Edmund, but she was conscious of Andrew standing behind her.

‘Yes,’ she admitted.

‘You want me to look at him?’

‘No. This always works.’

‘He might need an injection of morphine.’

‘They’re never bad enough for that.’

‘Then this isn’t the first?’

‘I mentioned them to the paediatrician when I took Edmund back to the hospital for his check-up,’ she replied defensively.

‘If you hadn’t been a nurse you would have had to give him up at birth. You do know that, don’t you?’

‘But I am a nurse. And these convulsions are not that bad ...’

‘They’re not good either, Bethan. Neither is his prognosis. When will you listen to sense?’

‘Andrew please, we’ve been through all this before.’ Tears fell from her eyes into the water that lapped around the relaxing figure of the baby.

‘And we’ll continue to go through it until you make the right decision.’ He pointed at the baby. ‘For his welfare as well as your own. Tonight,’ he insisted firmly, ‘when I come home we’ll discuss it. No more excuses, no more putting off what has to be done. You’ll make your choice of place. God only knows I’ve brought enough brochures home. And when you’ve decided, we’ll take him there. Together.’

He turned on his heel and returned to their bedroom.

She lifted Edmund from the sink on to her lap, pulled out the plug and wrapped a towel round him. Retreating to the nursery she undressed and dried him, covering him with a thick, clean towel and blanket. She sought the sanctuary of the rocking chair, holding the baby close while she listened to Andrew moving around in their bedroom.

Obviously he hadn’t gone back to sleep. When the alarm clock rang at six-thirty it was promptly switched off. She heard his footsteps in the small hall as he went to run his bath. She followed his movements in her mind’s eye as he washed, shaved, dressed, combed his hair and splashed cologne on his chin; all the small routine tasks she had loved to watch when they had first been married.

She waited for him to go into the kitchen. Normally she would have cooked him bacon, eggs and toast by now. Before the baby had been born, this had been one of her favourite times of the day. They had sat and talked while Andrew ate. Discussing everything – and nothing in particular: the headlines in the paper, childhood reminiscences, amusing stories about his patients and the internal politics of the hospital he worked in. But they hadn’t enjoyed a breakfast like that in months. Since the birth of the baby he had taken to eating in a silence she hadn’t found the courage to brave.

Eventually the front door banged. A pang of guilt beset her as she realised he had left without eating anything.

But still she lingered in the chair. Andrew might have forgotten something, he might return ... The minutes ticked by. Five ... ten ... only then did she rise and return her sleeping child to his cot with an anxious check, just to make sure he was breathing.

She picked up the half-finished bottle and went into the kitchen. The coffee she had made the night before stood, cold and untouched in the pot. She emptied it down the sink. She had to think, plan out exactly what she was going to do. She tidied the kitchen and walked through the small inner hallway. The doors to all the rooms except the baby’s were open.

She saw their unmade bed, a thin patina of dust on the linoleum beneath it. The fire had gone out in the living room and the hearth was covered with ashes and coal dust. She couldn’t leave the flat untidy for Andrew to return to after a hard day’s work. That simply wouldn’t be fair. But it would mean her catching a later train and not getting home until late in the evening ...

Home –a train journey away. Money! Everything she had was in her purse. Seventeen shillings and sixpence housekeeping that was supposed to last her until Friday.

Third class to Pontypridd was at least twice that amount.

She could hardly go around the transport cafés looking for a lift with the baby. All the bank and cheque books were in Andrew’s name.

Her heart sank at the thought of having to stay here until Andrew came home to coldly, calmly and logically discuss the removal of Edmund from their daily lives.

She must have something she could sell or pawn. Her wedding ring caught the light, gleaming on her left hand.

She could hardly carry a baby home without a ring, but she did have a gold and blue enamelled antique locket that Andrew had given her. It had cost twenty pounds, and she loved it, not because it had been expensive and was the only piece of good jewellery she possessed, but because Andrew had given it to her before she had become pregnant.

If she pawned it, she could lose it for ever, but she consoled herself with the thought that she could send the ticket to Andrew. If it meant as much to him as it did to her he would redeem it; if it didn’t, then it might be as well that she had no tangible memento of their early relationship. Either way, she had no choice.

She couldn’t stay here knowing how much the baby’s presence upset Andrew, any more than she could abandon Edmund.

Still in her nightdress and dressing gown she picked up a duster and mop and attacked the bedroom. Stripping the bed, she cleaned the room thoroughly before remaking the mattress with fresh sheets. Filling the bath with water and soapsuds she threw the sheets and all the white washing she could find into it and left them to soak.