A Silver Lining (13 page)

Then she tackled the feeding bottles. It was a long journey from Paddington to Pontypridd: it might mean six or even more hours travelling. She had four bottles, and to be on the safe side she decided to fill them all.

The baby woke again at eight, taking her completely by surprise. She was on the balcony, pegging the sheets, nappies and collars on the washing line and hadn’t realised it was so late. Not only had she finished the washing, she had also laid the fire in the living room. All that Andrew need do when he came home was put a match to it.

She lifted Edmund’s small tin bath into the larger bath and filled it, deciding to wash him before giving him his feed. She splashed water over his fingers and toes and told him about the trip they were about to make as he lay back listless and unresponsive on her arm. Another four ounces of milk and she could have her own bath, and begin packing.

As she lifted down her old cardboard suitcase from the top of the wardrobe she remembered Andrew’s dinner. He would be hungry when he came home. She ran to the pantry. There was a cold meat and potato pie she had made yesterday for his supper. If she peeled some fresh vegetable to go with it he could eat that. She looked along the shelves: a madeira cake, half a loaf of bread, fresh fruit, and butter in the butter dish –he had enough to see him through tonight and knowing Andrew, he’d make other arrangements tomorrow, with his sister Fiona, or with one of the clubs his colleagues belonged to.

Packing didn’t take long. Setting aside one of her three sets of underclothes and the coat and dress Andrew had bought for her wedding outfit, which she intended wearing, all she had left to fold in the suitcase was a blue serge skirt, a white blouse, her remaining underclothes and her old ringed black velvet dance dress. She looked at the two maternity dresses in the wardrobe. Deciding they could be cut down, she tossed them into the case. There was still room for a dozen of the baby’s nappies and his spare towel.

She closed the case and looked around for something to pack the baby’s clothes in. There were only Andrew’s leather suitcases and she didn’t want to take anything of his, so she settled on a roomy shopping bag.

Carrying it into the baby’s bedroom she folded the contents of his chest of drawers into it.

She bathed, dressed, combed her hair, and put on a little make-up, then prowled restlessly around the flat, checking for dust with her finger, making doubly sure that everything was neat and tidy. Finally she stood in the middle of the living room, holding her hat and coat, imagining Andrew walking through the door. Would he call her name? Look for her? Would he open the door to the baby’s room, the room he hadn’t entered since Edmund had occupied it? Would he wonder where she was? Miss her even?

She went to the sideboard drawer and pulled out the writing pad she used to write her letters home. Opening her handbag she took out the fountain pen her father had bought her the day she’d passed her eleven-plus and been accepted for grammar school. He had been so proud of her then.

If only he were here now, to hug her, and tell her that she was doing the right thing. She poised the nib over the pad, and her mind went blank. It was ridiculous. She and Andrew were married, had made a child together, she loved him. There had to be something she could say.

She began to write

Dear Andrew,

There is a meat pie in the oven that can be heated up, and vegetables prepared on the stove. All you have to do is light the gas. I’m sorry I’m not here, but I am taking the baby home with me for a while. Should you want to get in touch you can write to me at my father’s house. Please don’t follow me; it’s probably best that we both have some time away from one another to think things out.

I love you.

Bethan

The baby began to cry. Bethan laid the pad with her note turned uppermost in the centre of the table and went to him. She fed and changed him, dressing him in a warm set of hand-knitted clothes that Laura had made, the only present anyone had sent her after he had been born.

Wrapping him in the bedclothes from the cot she tucked him into his pram and wheeled him through to the outer hall. She laid the shopping bag at his feet, put on her coat and hat, and picked up her suitcase and handbag.

Her wedding ring was on her finger, her locket safely tucked in its box in her handbag. She was ready. The clock in the living room struck the hour. If she was to reach home today she’d better get going.

She wheeled the pram through the front door and closed it behind her. She looked at the keys in her hand, then pushed them through the letterbox. There was no turning back. Not now.

‘Six months’ hard labour.’

‘What?’ Eddie turned his shocked face to Huw Griffiths.

‘The magistrates’ verdict. The others got six months for assault, your father got the same with hard labour because he hit a policeman as opposed to a Blackshirt.’

‘How come they’ve been sentenced already?’ Eddie demanded. ‘I thought the courts didn’t open until ten o’clock.’

‘They were expecting trouble, so they convened at six to deal with the cases from the Town Hall.’

‘Where’s Dad now?’ Eddie asked.

‘Waiting to be taken to Cardiff prison.’

‘Can we see him?’ Charlie spoke slowly. His head was still aching from the pounding he’d received the day before.

‘Officially the answer’s no, but I’ll see what kind of a mood the Super’s in.’ Huw left the high counter in the reception area of the police station, and disappeared into the back. He emerged a few moments later. ‘Super says you can have five minutes. But I warn you, the Black Maria’s expected any minute, and when it comes you’ll have to go.’ He opened the flap in the counter, and Charlie stepped back to allow Eddie through first.

They didn’t have far to walk. Evan, Billy and Viv Richards were sitting in a row with three others on a hard bench in the corridor outside the reception room, their wrists linked together with cuffs, a policeman on guard duty beside them.

‘Evan?’

Evan looked up. He tried to smile when he saw Charlie and Eddie behind Huw.

‘You’re the last people I expected to see,’ Evan murmured. ‘Not that I didn’t hope you’d come.’ He rose to his feet, but the handcuffs hampered the movement of his arms.

‘No touching the prisoner,’ the duty constable commanded sharply.

‘Sorry, my fault.’ Evan sank back down on the bench.

‘Dad we’ll get a solicitor ... we’ll ...’ Eddie clenched and unclenched his hands. Used to settling his problems with his fists, he felt helpless in the presence of so many policemen.

‘You’ll do no such thing, boy. No sense in throwing good money away.’ He looked past Eddie to Charlie.

‘There’s nothing to be done. I hit him, I pleaded guilty, and the least I can do now is take my punishment like a man.’

‘But Dad ...’

‘Six months will soon pass. You’ll tell everyone I’m fine?’

‘Everyone,’ Eddie echoed dully, not realising his father was speaking to Charlie.

‘All the family?’ Evan repeated.

‘I’ll tell them,’ Charlie promised.

‘How is Elizabeth taking it?’

‘Mam, like all of us thought you were only going to be kept in overnight,’ Eddie murmured miserably.

‘Then she’s going to have to wait a while before giving me what for. That’s almost worth serving six months’ hard labour.’ Evan smiled wryly. ‘And you,’ he nodded to his son. ‘No late nights for six months. You take the cart out every day, rain or shine, and make enough to keep the mortgage paid. Nothing else matters, do you hear me?

We’ll be all right as long as we keep a roof over our heads.’

‘I’ll try, Dad.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Charlie pushed his hands deep into his pockets. ‘I’ll see it’s paid.’

‘With
my
money,’ Evan insisted. ‘You’re a good mate, Charlie, but we’ve borrowed too much off you already.’

‘You’ve always paid me back.’

The steel double doors at the end of the corridor opened. The duty constable stepped out and pegged them against the outside wall. A van drew close to the opening, obliterating the small square of grey concrete yard and blue sky. The back door of the van opened from the inside and another constable stepped out.

‘Move along there. Look sharp.’

Eddie stared at the steel cage inside the van; at the utility metal benches bolted to the floor either side of the back.

‘Time you were gone.’ Huw Griffiths laid a hand on Eddie’s shoulder.

‘We’ll visit you, Dad. Just as soon as we’re able,’ he called out as Evan shuffled into the van with the others.

‘Don’t worry about me. Just keep the bills paid.’

‘Someone’s going to have to tell Mam,’ Eddie said as he and Charlie walked outside into the thin, early spring sunshine.

‘It would be best coming from you.’

‘But you’ll be with me?’

‘If you want.’

‘Not now.’ Eddie balked at the idea of walking back up the Graig hill to tell his mother the news. He would have nothing to do for the rest of the day except sit around the house and listen to her moans. ‘Later. I’ll take out a cart ...’

‘They’ll have all gone for the day.’ Charlie led the way across the road and down the Co-op Arcade.

‘The best rigs will have,’ Eddie conceded. ‘But if I take out whatever’s left I can stick close to home. Do Maesycoed. Anything I make has got to be better than nothing.’

‘It’ll have to be better than sixpence or you’ll be worse off,’ Charlie pointed out practically. ‘And your mother won’t be very happy if she finds out about your father from someone else.’

‘She won’t. No one else knows except us.’

‘It’ll soon be all over town.’

‘I may stop off home for dinner.’

Seeing that Eddie wasn’t to be dissuaded, Charlie put his hand in his pocket. ‘Here’s sixpence,’ he said, handing Eddie the rental money for the cart.

‘It’s all right; I’ve got some left from the money I get for cleaning the gym.’

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure. You going back to the slaughterhouse?’

‘I’ve some business to see to first.’ Charlie turned left at the foot of the arcade. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’

Eddie thought about the look on his father’s face as they had led him away. Despite Charlie’s support he had never missed his brother and sisters so much. Seventeen years of age, an experienced boxer who had the reputation for never turning down or backing away from a fight, he was still absolutely terrified of facing his mother’s wrath alone.

Chapter Eight

‘You don’t seem to know what to do with yourself, Vera.’

Mondays had been special to George Collins since he was seventeen and his father had died, forcing him to take over the family business. It was his only real day of rest, one on which he didn’t even have to go to chapel. A day which set him up for the busy week ahead. He worked from dawn until after nine on market days running his cheese stall, and delivering dairy goods to the valley corner shops in his van on the others. Monday he could put his feet up, read his library books, have a sort through his stamp collection, or play with the train set he had bought himself for his fortieth birthday and hadn’t dared look at since Vera had moved into the house, lest she mock his childishness.

‘I’m bored, George,’ Vera complained, swinging her long legs over the arm of the easy chair she was sitting in. She screwed the top back on a bottle of nail varnish. Blowing on her fingers she wiggled them in front of his eyes. ‘Scarlet passion, do you like it?’

‘Very nice.’ He pushed his glasses further up his nose and returned to his stirring tale of a shootout in downtown Dodge City.

‘George?’

‘Yes?’ He wrenched himself away just as the hero had been forced to pull out his gun in response to the villain’s threatening behaviour towards the schoolmarm.

‘Take me somewhere.’

‘You mean a ride. Out in the van?’

‘I don’t like the van,’ she sighed impatiently. ‘I wish we had a car.’

‘We’ll be able to afford one soon, if we’re careful with money,’ he said tersely.

‘Well it’s not very nice for me, is it? Sitting up on display in the front seat of a van for all the world to see. I don’t know why you had to buy a van instead of a car in the first place.’

‘I bought it to make deliveries, Vera. I need the loading space in the back.’

‘I suppose you do.’ She stood up, turned her back to him, and looked out of the window. ‘It’s chilly in here.’ She walked over to the fire and lifted her skirt to her thighs, warming the backs of her legs in front of the flames.

‘We could go up to Llanwonno for a walk. It’s a quiet run and there won’t be many around to see you sitting in the van. It’s a pretty place.’ He gave up on his book and shut it. ‘Mother liked going there. There’s a pretty church, old too, and some of the tombstones –’

‘I don’t want to see tombstones, George.’ Vera plucked her skirt higher so he could see the fine lace that trimmed the legs of her French silk knickers. ‘I want to see life while I’m still young enough to enjoy it.’

‘If it was summer we could go to Barry, or maybe Porthcawl ...’ his voice tailed away. She
was
his wife, and they were alone. But after his mother’s puritanical propriety he found Vera’s blatant exhibitionism embarrassing.

‘But it’s not summer, George.’

‘No I suppose it isn’t.’ He swallowed hard as she adjusted a stocking top. ‘I know, how about we go down to Cardiff? I could buy you tea in the Lyons.’

‘And take me to the shops?’ she asked excitedly.

‘If you want to,’ he agreed doubtfully. Vera certainly wasn’t the manager his mother had been. He hadn’t saved a penny of his weekly income since the day they’d married. He’d even had to dip into his hard-earned capital, and that worried him. The van wouldn’t last for ever. And he really ought to invest in one of those new cool-boxes to keep the stock fresh, and then there was that car she was always on about ...

‘There’s a darling spring outfit advertised in the
South Wales Echo.
It’s London-made. You can see it in the cut of the cloth. Real crache. Real style. Howell’s are stocking it ...’

He blanched. Howell’s was the most expensive shop in Cardiff. He couldn’t understand why Vera didn’t buy her clothes in the Co-op. His mother had, and everyone had always said she was a smart woman. Everyone, that is, except Vera. The first thing she’d done after they’d got married was give his mother’s entire wardrobe to her mother. And although he couldn’t be sure, he had his suspicions that some of the clothes had ended up on Wilf Horton’s stall.

‘ ... and it’s only eight pounds, George.’

‘Eight pounds!’

‘You
do
want your wife to look nice, don’t you George?’ She leaned forward and twiddled her fingers in the short hair at the nape of his neck.

‘Of course I do.’ He couldn’t resist her, that was the problem. He left his chair and slipped his hands around her waist.

‘Not now, George. Not if we’re going to Cardiff. Besides, you know I don’t like you touching me in the kitchen. What if one of the neighbours looks in through the window?’

‘I know,’ he sighed. Twice in four months. All the touching she’d allowed him. Still, he had to be patient. She
was
very young. He had no right to expect too much. Not all at once. And perhaps if he bought her the outfit...

‘Where did you spring from?’ Elizabeth asked her daughter as Bethan walked into the kitchen carrying her baby.

‘The station.’ Bethan laid Edmund down on the easy chair closest to the stove.

‘You travelled up on the train today?’

‘All day, and it feels like weeks,’ Bethan answered wearily.

‘How did you get up here from the station?’

‘I walked as far as Laura and Trevor’s. He was in, so he brought me up in the car.’

‘You called in on them before coming here?’

‘The pram wouldn’t fit in the station taxi. Trevor only just got it into his boot, and then he couldn’t close it.’

‘I can see you’re used to London ways, thinking nothing of throwing your money away on a taxi. I only wish I had a shilling for every time I had to push a pram up and down that hill, and not with just one tired baby in it either.’

Bethan was too tired to snipe back. It had taken longer than she’d expected to find a pawn shop willing to give her anything for her locket, and even then she’d had to settle for six pounds, not the ten she’d hoped for.

She had caught the eleven o’clock train out of London but it had been delayed in Reading, and having to change in Bristol had seemed like the last straw. She had spent an hour huddled on a bench close to the fire in the ladies’ waiting room waiting for the next train to Cardiff. And there she’d had to change, not only trains but platforms, humping the pram and suitcase up and down two flights of stairs with the help of a passing stranger.

She had negotiated the top step of the Rhondda and Pontypridd platform just in time to see the engine steaming gently out of the station. She had felt like screaming, but forced to accept the inevitable; she had wheeled the pram into yet another miserable ‘Ladies Only’ waiting room, and fed and changed Edmund while waiting.

Exhausted and reckless enough to order a taxi when she finally reached Pontypridd, she had almost resorted to tears when the pram refused to fit into the cab. Strapping her suitcase to the pram handle with the belt from her dress, she balanced the shopping bag and pushed the pram up the Graig hill, practically falling into Laura’s arms when she reached Graig Street. And despite the stew and sympathy Laura and Trevor had fed her, she still felt on the verge of collapse.

‘I expect you could do with a cup of tea?’ Elizabeth moved slightly so she could sneak a look into the bundle of shawl and blankets Bethan had set on the chair, but all she could make out was the top of a small head covered in light, downy hair.

‘Tea would be nice,’ Bethan murmured, sitting down.

‘You staying long?’

‘For a while.’

‘Something wrong between you and Andrew?’ Elizabeth asked bluntly.

‘No. I just wanted to come home for a few days. London isn’t like Pontypridd. It’s noisy. There’s no fresh air there. I felt as though I couldn’t breathe.’

‘Well, if it’s fresh air you want there’s plenty of that around here, but precious little else is being given away for nothing. I hope you can support yourself while you’re here. Your father still doesn’t bring in enough to keep the house going.’

‘I can support myself and the baby.’ Bethan looked down at her wedding ring and wondered what she’d get for it in Arthur Faller the pawnbroker’s in Pontypridd.

‘Elizabeth!’

‘That’s Mrs Richards from next door. I don’t doubt she saw you coming in here and wants a look at the baby. Being the way he is I’d keep him covered up if I were you,’ Elizabeth advised. She opened the passage door and called down to her neighbour, ‘Come in.’ That in itself was a novelty on the Graig where most of the neighbours were in and out of each other’s back kitchens at all hours of the day and night. It was a practice Elizabeth had actively discouraged, and as a concession her neighbours generally came no further than the hall unless they knew Evan was in.

‘What do you think?’ Mrs Richards walked into the kitchen. She paused, taken aback by the sight of Bethan sitting with the baby on her lap in Evan’s chair, but she wasn’t to be put off her stride by asking questions that could wait. ‘They tried our men early this morning. They all got six months, your Evan and my Viv included.’

‘Six months?’ Elizabeth echoed uncomprehendingly.

Charlie had told her Evan was being kept in the cells overnight so the police could get to the bottom of what had happened in the Mosley meeting. She’d assumed he’d witnessed a fight, nothing more.

‘Not that my Viv got hard labour, mind.’ Mrs Richards folded her arms across her ample bosom. ‘Your Evan did. But then he hit a policeman.’

‘My father hit a policeman?’ This time it was Bethan who was shocked.

‘Oh Elizabeth,’ Mrs Richards flopped her ample body down on the nearest chair. ‘What are we going to do?’ she wailed theatrically.

‘At least your Glan is in work,’ Elizabeth said acidly, her thoughts turning to money. They had just about scraped by on what Evan brought in from his carting round. How on earth was she going to manage with just the lodgers’ money coming in?

‘Do you want to see the costume and hat on me?’

‘Seeing as how I’ve paid for them, I suppose I may as well.’

George was angry. His wallet was twenty, not eight pounds, lighter because Vera had seen a hat, shoes, handbag, gloves and bracelet that she’d wanted every bit as much as the costume. She’d pleaded so eloquently he hadn’t really minded. Not when he was handing the money over, but then he’d turned just in time to see one of the male floorwalkers looking up Vera’s skirt as he bent to pick up the handkerchief she’d dropped at his feet.

And, as if that hadn’t been enough, Vera had stepped quite deliberately forward, in his opinion, to give the man an even better view. There’d been no question of tea in Lyons. He’d felt like hitting Vera for the first time in his married life. Restraining himself, he’d frogmarched her to the van, pushed her inside and driven straight home.

And even now the minx had the gall to behave as though nothing had happened. ‘Why don’t you come up to the bedroom, George?’ Vera called out seductively as she climbed the stairs.

Despite her brave front, she realised she’d gone too far. It wasn’t like George to sulk for so long.

‘You come down here,’ he replied gruffly, returning to his seat in the kitchen and his book.

‘I’ll only be a minute.’

She thought rapidly as she closed the curtains in the bedroom. Her mother had promised to leave an Irish stew and an apple tart in the pantry. All she had to do was warm them up in the oven. She was absolutely hopeless at all things domestic, a fact she only managed to keep from George with the complicity of her mother. All the cooking and cleaning in the household was done by her mother in exchange for a more than generous remuneration. But judging by the look on George’s face, it was going to take a lot more than an Irish stew and apple tart to make him happy this time.

She stripped down to her stockings, suspender belt and French knickers. Slipping on the formal tailored jacket and skirt, she admired her profile in the cheval glass. The suit was pale grey with navy blue edging.

‘Very chic,’ she murmured repeating a phrase the salesgirl had used. She balanced the hat on her head, picked up her new handbag and gloves, slipped on her shoes and walked down the stairs.

‘What do you think?’ She paraded in front of George.

‘All right.’ He barely glanced up from the page.

‘George.’ She went to him, took his book from his hands and sat on his lap. ‘Please, don’t be a grumplestilskin,’ she pleaded in a squeaky childish voice that had charmed him when she’d been younger.

‘I’ve every right to be furious,’ he replied refusing to be mollified.

‘Not over this outfit. It will last for years and years ...’

‘Have you made tea?’

‘Irish stew and apple tart. They’re in the pantry. I’ll put them in the oven now. They only need warming up.’

‘When did you make them?’

‘This morning. When you were putting the coal in,’ she lied.

He looked over her head trying to ignore the warmth of her body on his lap. She might be a spendthrift, but at least she managed to keep the house clean and decent food on the table, he decided grudgingly. Pity she couldn’t keep away from other men.

‘George.’ Her lips pouted very close to his. ‘George, please don’t be angry. I didn’t know that man was looking up my skirt. Honestly!’

‘But you should have realised ...’

‘You know how trusting I am. I expect all men to be like you, George.’ She wriggled on his legs until her skirt rode high over her thighs. It was going to crease, but her mother could always iron it. She saw him staring at the expanse of white flesh above her stocking top. ‘See what I mean, George,’ she cooed. ‘Most men would be taking advantage of me by now. You never have. And you’re the only man I’ve ever really known. If I’m too trusting it’s your fault.’

‘You got a petticoat on?’

‘I wore a thick flannel one to Cardiff. I had to take it off to try this on. The skirt wouldn’t have hung right with it underneath.’ She moved again, slipping precariously.

He put his hand on her hip to catch her before she fell.

‘You’re not wearing any bloomers either,’ he said accusingly.

‘Yes I am. I’m wearing the silk ones my sister gave me for Christmas. See.’ Like a little girl showing off, she lifted her skirt above her waist.