A Silver Lining (28 page)

‘You and your boss will rot in hell for this, Bobby Thomas,’ she screamed hysterically. ‘You mark my words. God will see you rot in hell. Putting a woman and her baby out on the street like this.’

‘You want to join her, Mavis?’ Bobby asked. ‘If you do, just carry on.’

‘You wouldn’t dare. I pay my rent on the nose, every week. I’ve got my rent book to prove it.’

‘But your kids make a racket. Mr Jones’s other tenants don’t like it. And you and your old man are always at it, hammer and tongs. I keep a record of all the complaints I get on my round, Mavis. You live in a rented house. Mr Jones has every right to put you out if he sees fit.’

The woman fell silent. Phyllis sat hunched on a kitchen chair that stood incongruously at the foot of the steps, her little boy wrapped in a shawl on her lap. All that could be seen of him beneath the layers of cloth was his red, runny nose.

‘Phyllis?’ Charlie had to call her name twice before she answered him. ‘We’ll have to find somewhere for you to go.’

She looked up, recognised Charlie, and a torrent of words poured out on a tide of tears, washing away all pretence of stoicism.

‘It’s not as if it’s just me and the baby, Charlie. It’s Rhiannon’s furniture and all her things,’ she sobbed looking at Rhiannon’s prized possessions scattered over the street.

‘There’s nothing in my front room,’ Mavis announced with a defiant look at Bobby. ‘We had to sell all our best sticks, even my grandmother’s rugs, before they’d give us enough dole to feed the kids. You’re welcome to use it.’

Charlie turned to William and Eddie. ‘Get as much of this furniture off the street and into next door as you can,’ he ordered.

‘We’ll help.’ The cry came from a dozen people.

Paralysed by a sense of impotence, they had stood idly by not knowing what to do or how to help. Despite Phyllis’s outcast status, her plight had invoked their pity.

‘Where you going, Charlie?’ Eddie picked up Rhiannon’s sewing box.

‘I’m taking Phyllis and the baby to Bethan.’

‘You do that,’ Eddie shouted in a voice calculated to carry to Bobby Thomas. ‘We can take them in, our house is our own. It’s not rented off any man.’

‘Take them through our house,’ Mavis ordered wrapping her arm around Phyllis and the baby.

‘Thank you, Mrs Davies.’ Charlie looked warily at two men who were carrying a chaise-longue down the steps.

‘Charlie?’ One of the bailiff’s men stepped forward, mopping his sweating face with a handkerchief. Charlie recognised him as a miner who had once worked with Evan. ‘I ... we ... none of us like doing this,’ he said awkwardly. But we need the money and when all’s said and done, a day’s work is a day’s work.’

‘You don’t have to explain anything to me,’ Charlie said flatly.

‘Well I just wanted to say, the lady’s clothes, the baby’s cot and his toys ... Well the boys and me, we don’t want to carry them out here.’

‘Is it all right if some of the things are carried through the house up to the Powells’ house in Graig Avenue, Mr Jones?’ Charlie asked James, who was standing just inside the door.

James turned aside, feeling very sick and ashamed of himself. ‘I’ll get the men to do it, Charlie,’ he mumbled. ‘Just tell us which pieces you want.’

Belinda Lane led Alma’s mother through the town towards Berw Road. Avenue might have been a more appropriate name, as all the houses were built on one side.

The other side sloped down steeply towards the river. Close up the water was black, turgid with coal dust, but distance and the trees that grew along the banks lent the flow of water a certain enchantment, and the houses were sought after by those who couldn’t afford the prices of the villas on the Common.

The minister’s house was a brisk five-minute walk out of town, close to a large, pleasant, open green space.

Belinda led Lena Moore carefully up the steep stone steps, knocked the door tentatively and waited. She had to knock a second time before they heard rubber soled carpet slippers squeaking over the flagstoned passageway.

‘I’ll play on the green, Auntie Moore,’ Belinda said nervously. ‘You can call out when you want to leave. I’ll hear you.’ She’d been in the minister’s house once and had hated the unnatural silence and the smell: a closed-in musty scent of damp plaster and books that reminded her of chapel, mixed together with beeswax polish and boiled fish.

‘Mind you don’t go far, Belinda.’

‘I won’t.’ The girl skipped off.

The door opened and the minister’s sister stood framed in the porchway. A tall, well-built God-fearing woman, she had devoted her life to the chapel and her brother. Regarding herself as the epitome of the women of the scriptures, she had little time or sympathy for those who, in her narrow opinion, had strayed from the path of righteousness, and had told Lena so, repeatedly.

‘Mrs Moore.’ She peered suspiciously at Lena. ‘Did you want to see my brother?’

‘I rather hoped I could,’ Lena said apologetically. The minister’s sister always made her feel nervous. ‘But if it’s not convenient ...’

‘It is rather early for a call. However, he’s just finishing his breakfast, and if you’d care to wait in his study I’ll see if he can spare you a moment or two.’ Her voice told Lena exactly how much of a nuisance she was being.

The study was every bit as cold and cheerless as the kitchen in Morgan Street.

‘Can I take your coat, Mrs Moore?’

‘No thank you. I won’t disturb the minister for long. I only need a minute of his time.’

‘There’s a chair behind you to your left. I’ll just go and finish seeing to his breakfast.’

Lena stood in the doorway of the room and extended her hands. She took small steps, halting when her foot touched the chair. She crouched down, felt for the seat and fell into the chair rather inelegantly, glad that no one was around to witness her fumblings. While she waited she amused herself by trying to recall the study.

She could remember the house quite well from her frequent visits as a child, invited on the strength of her father’s position as a deacon. There’d been Christmas tea parties with stewed tea and boiled fruit cake, Harvest Thanksgiving when the table had been laid with slabs of coarse brown bread and home-made sour milk cheese, and fund-raising coffee mornings which she had spent washing up with the “girl” in the scullery.

‘My brother will be with you in a moment, Mrs Moore.’

Lena started, wondering how long the minister’s sister had been in the room.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she offered curtly.

‘I’ve just had breakfast, but thank you.’

‘As you wish.’

‘Mrs Moore, this is a surprise!’ The minister himself bustled in. Lena heard a chair creak as he sat down, then the door closed. She assumed his sister had shut it behind her. ‘May I ask what brings you down here today, Mrs Moore?’ the minister asked.

‘Alma,’ she admitted miserably.

‘Your daughter.’ He shook his head, then remembered that she couldn’t see his gesture of disapproval. ‘I might have known. What’s the girl been up to now?’

‘It’s been hard since she lost her job in the tailor’s shop.’

‘That I can believe,’ he said harshly. ‘But then if what I’ve heard is right, she deserved to lose it. As you well know, I’ve little patience with the girl, but I must confess that after thinking it over I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps Alma isn’t the only one to blame for your troubles.’

Lena looked in the direction of his voice, and waited for more.

‘As your father would no doubt have told you if he’d lived longer, you spoilt the girl when she was young. You allowed her to run wild.’

‘I did the best I could,’ she protested.

‘I’m not saying you didn’t,’ he pursed his lips. ‘All things considered I suppose we couldn’t really expect any better. Your father told me a few things about your husband, and we must remember that Alma has her father’s blood in her. But when I hear –’

‘She’s found herself another job,’ Lena interrupted quickly. ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’

‘What kind of job?’

‘Working in a cooked meat and pie shop.’

‘Serving?’ he asked incredulously. ’A young girl who worked with Alma in the tailor’s told me that decent women have refused to allow Alma to wait on them.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Lena countered timidly. She’d never dared contradict Mr Parry before in her life.

‘I assure you the girl is quite reliable, and respectable.’

‘This job isn’t behind the counter. It’s in the back, cooking and baking,’ Lena broke in, not wanting to hear any more about the “girl” or what she’d said.

‘I didn’t know Alma had received training in domestic skills,’ the minister commented drily.

‘And because she’ll be starting work really early every morning we’ve had to move into a flat over the shop,’ Lena continued valiantly, sticking rigidly to the topic she wanted to discuss.

‘Where is this shop?’

‘On the corner between Taff Street and Penuel Lane, by the fountain. Opposite the entrance to the fruit market.’

‘So you’ve left Morgan Street. You really should have let us know. One of the deacons could have wasted time looking for you.’

‘Alma didn’t tell me we were moving until late Wednesday night. I came as soon as I could.’

‘You do realise that if Alma loses this job, you will both be out on the street,’ he informed her coldly.

‘That’s what I came to talk to you about. I know my father always valued your advice, and I was hoping you could help us. I begged Alma not to give up the house in Morgan Street but she insisted we couldn’t afford the rent without her money from the tailor’s ...’

‘Am I right in thinking that the rent you will be paying for this flat will be deducted from your daughter’s wages?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then what are you going to live on? Surely her earnings will barely cover the cost of the flat?’

‘She’s going to get ten shillings after the rent, coals and food are paid for.’

‘She is going to be earning enough to cover all that by cooking?’

‘It seems a lot to me, but then I’ve no idea of wages.’

‘I have, and I’d like to know just what kind of duties warrant that level of salary. I’m acquainted with many married men who bring home a good deal less.’

‘But she insists it’s straightforward work. Early start in the kitchen. Three to four o’clock most mornings, and then work through to midday. And because it’s better pay than she’s getting now, she won’t have to work nights in the café. She said it will be a better life for both of us. It just doesn’t sound quite right to me ...’

‘Or me. So why exactly have you come here?’

‘I was hoping you could talk to her,’ Lena pleaded. ‘Make her see sense before it’s too late.’

‘But you’ve told me that you are already living in the flat tied to this job.’

‘Yes,’ Lena admitted miserably.

‘Then it is too late. There’s nothing I can do for you or your daughter now, Mrs Moore.’

‘I suppose there isn’t.’ She gripped the arms of her chair tightly.

‘Might I ask the name of the man Alma is working for?’

‘I’m not sure. Alma calls him Charlie.’

‘The foreign butcher on the market!’

‘I think he’s the one.’

‘Another unmarried foreigner like the last. I feel for you in your sorrow, Mrs Moore.’ He rose from his chair. ‘But there is nothing I can do for you. I have my sister and her reputation to consider, so I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you to leave.’

‘I’m sorry ...’

‘And until such time as you leave this man’s house I’m afraid I will have to ask you to forgo attending chapel.’

‘No!’ This was one eventuality that hadn’t occurred to Lena. Brought up to revere the chapel, she interpreted the minister’s edict not only as social disgrace but also as eviction from heaven. ‘Please ...’

‘It is not me you should be pleading with, Mrs Moore, but your daughter. How could you allow her to behave this way? Going from one man to another without a wedding ring in sight. All I can say is I’m glad your father isn’t here to see what his granddaughter has become.’

Lena burst into tears.

‘You had better get down on your knees and ask for God’s forgiveness –but not in my chapel. I will pray for you. Goodbye, Mrs Moore.’

Chapter Seventeen

Charlie stood back to allow Phyllis and her baby to walk into the house before him.

‘I shouldn’t be here. Not here. Of all the houses on the Graig ...’ For the first time in her life hysteria mounted as the finality of the move she was making hit her.

‘You can sit in my room while I see Bethan,’ Charlie said gently but firmly. He stepped ahead of her and led the way to his room, which was just in front of the kitchen. He ushered Phyllis in. ‘I’ll go and find Bethan. I won’t be long.’ He closed the door, leaving Phyllis and the baby alone.

The room was clean, orderly and sterile. A single bed with plain deal foot and head boards, neatly made, and covered by a smooth grey, blue and black piece of woven

Welsh flannel, was pushed up against the wall to the right of the door. Opposite it a lavishly embroidered fire screen concealed the hearth of a polished iron fire grate, topped by a brass airing rail that hung just below the wooden mantelpiece.

White-painted wooden planking doors fronted the alcoves, and Phyllis presumed they held Charlie’s clothes and possessions.

The curtains were pulled wide in the bay window, giving a view of the garden wall of Rhiannon’s house opposite, and the centre sash had been pulled down a couple of inches. The room was cold, but with the kitchen stove going full blast next door, not overly so.

Phyllis pulled the checked flannel shawl closer around both herself and Brian as she sat on the only chair in the room. Placed in the exact centre of the bay window it faced inwards. She tried to imagine Charlie sitting here and doing ... what?

There were no books in evidence and she decided that they too must be in the cupboards. The bed, the chair, the fire screen and a small card table pushed up against the back wall facing her –there was nothing else.

Even the mantelpiece was free from dust and photographs. Not even one of the dark, hurriedly developed snaps the beach photographers took in Barry Island and Porthcawl.

The walls were papered in a busy rose trellis pattern that would have camouflaged any pictures. Not a single object gave a clue to Charlie’s likes, dislikes or personality. She knew that he had lived with the Powells for nearly a year, and Megan Powell, Evan’s sister-in-law, for two before that. Three years in Pontypridd, but he might well have moved in yesterday. She wondered if he was really close to anyone. Man or woman.

Man! Evan Powell. They frequently had a drink together, and Evan had told her how much he relied on Charlie’s judgement and friendship. She shuddered as an image of Evan came to mind. She had promised herself that she would never lean on him, never demand anything of him, no matter what; and here she was, sitting helplessly while Charlie of all people pleaded with Evan’s daughter to take her and her son in. She was reduced to begging charity from a woman who had more cause to dislike her than anyone, except perhaps Elizabeth.

She sank back into the chair, clutched her baby and wondered if it would have been better to have walked down to the workhouse after all.

Bethan was still in her bedroom watching her baby when she heard Charlie’s soft, muted voice floating up the stairs. She heard the door to his room open and close and wondered who he was talking to. When she heard footsteps on the stairs she stood up and smoothed her skirt with her hands. It had to be Trevor. Charlie hadn’t come up since the day he’d moved into the house; he had no reason to. She opened her door, stepping back in amazement when she saw Charlie standing on the landing.

‘I know your baby is very ill, and I’m sorry to disturb you, Bethan. But I need to talk to you. The bailiffs are putting Phyllis and her baby out on the street.’

‘Bailiffs. But why?’ She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

‘Fred Jones wants her out now that Rhiannon is dead, and as the rent book was in Rhiannon’s name they have the right to do it.’

‘But the funeral was only the day before yesterday. There’s all the furniture ...’

‘William and Eddie are carrying some of it next door. I hope you don’t mind, I asked them to bring Phyllis’s more personal possessions here.’

‘Of course.’ Bethan thought rapidly. ’The front parlour will need clearing-’

‘I’ll see to that,’ Charlie broke in swiftly.

Bethan turned away, went to the bed and picked up Edmund. She laid his cheek against her own. He was still unnaturally warm, but not as hot as he had been in the night.

‘Phyllis and the baby have nowhere to go.’

She had known what Charlie was going to say and had been prepared for it. ‘This is my mother’s as well as my father’s house.’

She spoke so quietly Charlie had to strain to catch what she was saying. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

‘When we were in prison, with your father, I thought you’d guessed.’

‘I guessed all right. Only too well.’

‘If you don’t take her in no one else will. They’re all too afraid of their landlord.’

‘That’s Phyllis’s problem.’

‘After nursing there you know better than anyone what it’s like in the workhouse for an unmarried woman. Bethan, please, can she stay here? Just until I can sort out something better?’ he pleaded. ‘She can have my bed. I’ll sleep on the floor of Eddie and William’s room.’

‘How can you ask me, of all people, to take her in?’

‘I’m asking because it’s what your father would do if he were home.’

‘Not if my mother were here.’

‘But neither of them is, and Phyllis is downstairs –’

‘You’ve brought her here!’

‘She’s in my room. She knows I’ve come upstairs to talk to you.’

‘How could you put me in this position, Charlie?’ She bit her lower lip in an attempt to contain her anger.

‘Because I don’t want to leave her nursing her baby in the street, surrounded by Rhiannon’s furniture,’ he said simply.

‘But this, all of this,’ she said wearily, glancing down at her baby, ‘will just create more scandal and gossip. I ...’ her voice trailed miserably as she looked into Charlie’s deep blue eyes. None of the contempt she felt for herself was mirrored in their patient depths. Here she was worrying about scandal and gossip, as if scandal and gossip would make any difference to her relationship with Andrew.

Their marriage had fallen apart on the day Edmund was born. What did it matter if she took Phyllis in, or that Phyllis was her father’s mistress? What did any of it matter?

Her thoughts went out to Phyllis and the solemnly beautiful little boy with the black curly hair just like Eddie ... just like her father.

‘Get the boys to clear the parlour for the things Phyllis wants to bring with her. She’ll have to sleep with the baby in the box room for the time being. The furniture ...’

‘Don’t worry about the furniture. I’ll sort it out. Thank you, Bethan.’

She closed the door and sank back on the bed. Edmund had fallen asleep on her shoulder, and his small body felt limp and damp against hers. Had she done the right thing?

Her father would undoubtedly think so, and thank her for it, but her mother would probably never speak to her again if she ever got to hear. But there were the boys. Haydn was away, but what if he should come home and find out?

And Eddie, he was always too handy with his fists. How many fights would he feel honour bound to settle when the whole of the Graig found out who Brian Harry’s father was, and began talking about it?

‘Bethan says you’re welcome to stay.’ Charlie exaggerated the truth when he saw Phyllis sitting, like an anguished Madonna with her son on her lap, in the bay window of his room.

‘She did? But ...’

‘She knows who fathered your child,’ he interposed. ’Bethan’s baby is very ill and she’s waiting for the doctor, but she suggested that you and Brian sleep in the box room. I’m sorry, but Diana had to go to work. There’s no one to help you make up the bed, or make you breakfast,’ he apologised artfully, knowing that the best thing for her would be work.

‘If someone could bring over the linen and my clothes I’ll make up the bed.’ Now she was away from the street and prying eyes she couldn’t bear the thought of going back. ‘I’ll see to it. Why don’t you sit in the kitchen? It’s warmer there.’

She picked up Brian and followed Charlie. One glance at the disorder in the room was enough. She took off her coat and shawl and sat the baby on the hearthrug in front of the stove. He wailed and clutched at her leg.

‘You’ve got to be good,’ she said sternly, as she set about clearing the table of breakfast dishes. Something in the tone of her voice silenced him. Charlie disappeared into his room and returned with a wooden box. He knelt on the floor beside the baby, opened it and showed him the chess figures it contained.

Phyllis realised that there were some personal things tucked away in the alcove cupboards after all.

‘If those are valuable don’t give them to him,’ she warned. ‘He’s teething. He might bite them.’

‘He wouldn’t be the first child to cut his teeth on them.’ Charlie rose to his feet. ‘I’ll bring your clothes and linen over. You’ll let the doctor in when he calls?’

‘I will.’ Phyllis was already soaking the burnt porridge saucepan in the washhouse.

Bobby Thomas was nowhere to be seen when James Jones allowed Charlie to walk through Rhiannon’s house. It already had a deserted air, as if the occupants had moved out months ago. The washhouse was empty. Two broken dolly pegs lay abandoned in a corner. The big round washtub had been carried into the back kitchen, and one of the men was emptying the contents of the pantry into it: dishes, plates, bowls, a bag of potatoes, a bread bin, a crock with three eggs in it. The kitchen itself had already been stripped.

There was no sign of Rhiannon’s table and chairs, or the easy chairs with their bright patchwork cushions. Even the curtains had been taken down.

Charlie walked through the passage. He glanced in at the two men who were denuding the parlour of its pictures. The crowd’s mood wasn’t quite so ugly now that Phyllis had gone. Mavis had opened the doors of Rhiannon’s prized inlaid china cabinet and she and two other women were removing the china, placing all the pieces into baskets: whole pieces one side, broken pieces the other.

‘I’ll get our Cath to fix them with good glue,’ Mavis explained when she saw Charlie walking down the steps. ‘She’s a dab hand at it. Artistic, like my father. It’s in the blood.’

‘I’m sure Phyllis will be very grateful.’

‘We’ve put the table, chairs, dresser and beds in Mrs Davies’s front room, Charlie,’ Eddie said as he and William scanned the pavement wondering what to take next.

‘Bethan’s agreed to have Phyllis,’ Charlie murmured in a low tone as he stood close to the boys.

‘Good for our Beth,’ Eddie said loudly.

‘Quiet!’ Charlie said sharply. ‘Now listen, both of you.’ He looked around. ‘See that blanket chest over there. Put all the clothes, sheets and blankets you can find into it and carry it into my room.’

‘Your room?’ William stared at him in amazement.

‘There isn’t space for anything that size in the box room, and we’ll need the front parlour for Rhiannon’s better pieces,’ Charlie answered shortly, reading the expression on William’s face and not liking what he saw. ‘Phyllis can take what she wants out of it and carry it upstairs.’

‘Beth’s putting Phyllis and the baby in the box room?’ Eddie asked.

‘For the time being,’ Charlie answered evasively. He looked round and saw the bailiff who had worked with Evan. ‘Give us a hand to carry this china cabinet over the road?’

The man looked to James, who nodded.

‘Be glad to, Charlie,’ he replied.

‘Just give us five minutes to make room for it in the house, then we’ll be with you.’

‘He
must
be,’ Mrs Richards hissed, elbowing Mavis Davies out of the way, and peering into the washtub as the men carried it past her before dumping it on the pavement.

‘Phyllis’s little boy’s got black hair and brown eyes, and Charlie’s hair is as white as snow and his eyes are blue,’ Mavis protested.

‘But Phyllis Harry’s father had dark eyes, and hair the colour of coal,’ Mrs Richards reminded her. ‘Phyllis got her colouring from her mother, God rest her soul, but black hair and dark eyes are in her blood. That child of hers could be a throwback to old Harry. Take my word for it.’

‘Well, I suppose Charlie has taken charge here,’ Mavis conceded reluctantly, not really wanting the paternity of Phyllis’s child to be resolved. It had been a topic of great discussion with the gossips in the street, and once the mystery was solved it would lose all interest as a talking point.

‘And
seen Phyllis Harry all right,’ Mrs Richards pronounced with a decisive nod of the head. ‘Which he’d want to do if the baby was his, wouldn’t he?’

‘What I can’t understand is why he didn’t marry her. He can’t be short of a few bob.’

‘Men. They’re all the same, have their fun then clear off first chance they get.’

‘Then why is he helping her now?’

‘Who knows? Perhaps he has a conscience. Mind you, I’m surprised at Bethan Powell taking her in.’

‘Bethan Powell’s taking her in?’ The group of women all turned to Mrs Richards.

‘Didn’t you hear Charlie talking to the boys? I did,’ she crowed. ’Bethan’s putting her in the box room, and I must admit I never expected to see that. With her being married to a John, and a doctor and all. The Johns won’t like the idea of someone like Phyllis and her bastard living under the same roof as their daughter-in-law and grandson.’

‘Seems to me they don’t like the idea of Bethan Powell as a daughter-in-law, or the idea of a grandson like the one they’ve been given, full stop,’ Mrs Evans muttered as she passed them carrying a bundle of Rhiannon’s curtains. ‘If they did they would have come to see her by now. And there’s been no car except Doctor Lewis’s outside that house since the day she came back.’

‘You can’t expect the likes of Dr John and his wife to come to the Graig,’ Mrs Richards pronounced.

‘Or the likes of Bethan Powell to go crawling to the Common crache,’ Mavis countered.

‘Eddie told me the baby’s really ill,’ Mrs Evans announced as William, Eddie and Charlie reappeared at the front of the house.