Hearts of Gold (29 page)

‘A radio.’ She fingered the Bakelite casing on the set that stood on one of the bedside tables. What they would have given at home for a radio, she thought wistfully.

‘It’s not as powerful as the radiogram in the living room.’

‘You have a radiogram as well? I didn’t see it.’

‘You’re not supposed to. I don’t like things like that on display. I’ve hidden it behind one of the sofas. But here’s different. This room is just for me, and my very special guests. Which is why I had a small bar built into this.’ He pulled a box trolley towards him, and opened the lid. ‘Gin, brandy, whisky, iced wine?’

‘You have ice too?’

‘I confess I asked Mair to fill an ice bucket earlier and bring it over.’ He took off his jacket and flung it over a chair. His wallet fell to the floor. ‘Which reminds me, madam,’ he picked it up and opened it. ‘I haven’t given you your winnings.’

‘I didn’t give you any betting money.’

‘Here,’ he handed her nine five-pound notes, ‘five pounds at ten to one. Fifty pounds less the five you owe me.’

‘I can’t take it.’

‘Why? I took a lot more than that off the bookie. If you feel at all guilty give it to Eddie. He earned it.’

‘I suppose he did.’ She took it and pushed it into her handbag.

‘Right, now that’s done. Drink?’

‘I think I had enough earlier.’

‘So did I, but that’s no reason to stop. It doesn’t hurt to let your hair down once in a while.’

‘Doctor’s diagnosis?’

‘Of course.’ He opened the wine and poured out two glasses. She walked around the room looking at everything, trying to commit every detail to memory so she could imagine him here, alone when they were apart. She rested her cheek against the plain navy-blue silk drapes, touched the bronze figures that held the stained-glass shades of the lamps, rested the palms of her hands on the smooth sweep of the heavy navy and red silk bedspread.

‘This is a beautiful room,’ she whispered, suddenly aware of how alone they were. Of why he’d brought her here.

‘I’m glad you like it. I have a penchant for beautiful things.’ He stood up and ran his fingers through her hair. ‘All beauty,’ he said quietly. ‘The exotic, the modern and the artistic.’ He pointed to an enormous copy of Manet’s Olympia that hung, framed by silk drapes above his bed. She stared at the nude fascinated, yet shocked by its blatant eroticism.

‘I don’t know how any woman could do that,’ she said when she realised he was waiting for her to react.

‘Do what?’

‘Pose in front of a man without any clothes on.’

‘Perhaps she was in love with Manet. From the way he’s portrayed her he was obviously in love with her. And you have to admit she is very beautiful.’

Taught from childhood by Elizabeth that nudity was disgusting she found it difficult to equate beauty with a woman’s naked body.

‘But my darling,’ he bent his head and kissed her, ‘She can’t hold a candle to you.’

He kicked the door shut with the heel of his shoe.

‘Trevor and Laura?’ she protested.

‘Will lock the door behind them.’

‘Your parents?’

‘Have no key, and visitors to take care of. Besides, they know better than to barge in here without an invitation. I told you – this is my lair.’

He gently removed her hat and handbag from her trembling hands and threw them on to the window seat. She turned her back to him and looked out of the window.

‘I love you,’ he murmured. Standing behind her he wrapped his arms around her, cupping her breasts with his hands. ‘Don’t you think I’ve been patient long enough?’ he asked softly. ‘I could have brought you here instead of taking you to Cardiff that first time we went out alone together.’

‘Like Trevor did Laura?’

‘We’re not Trevor and Laura.’

She turned to face him. Sliding her hands up to his neck she pulled him close and returned his kiss. Still kissing, he drew her down on to the bed. She lay next to him, the wine she’d drunk making the ceiling spin. She tried to think clearly, evaluate the choices open to her. But she couldn’t. His presence overwhelmed her senses. The smell of brandy and tobacco on his breath – his cologne … the touch of his fingers burning into the skin on her arm … 

He rolled close to her, pinning her down. His hand slid high beneath her jacket, unfastening the buttons on her dress. His tongue darted into her mouth. She lifted her arms to his face, and stroked his cheeks.

‘I love you, Bethan Powell,’ he mumbled hoarsely. ‘More than you can ever begin to know.’

‘I love you too, Andrew.’ Evading his hands she struggled to sit up on the bed.

‘Beth …’ he begged.

She removed her jacket and tossed it on to a chair. Then she slid her arms out of the sleeves of her dress and pulled it down to her waist.

Struck dumb, he stared at her, and in that precise moment she felt as though she could see her future mirrored in the depths of his dark eyes.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked huskily.

She thought of Laura, her friend’s amazement at the revelation that she and Andrew had never made love. Of Anthea Llewellyn-Jones waiting in the wings. She loved Andrew, and she knew now that she would do anything … anything to keep him.

‘I’m sure,’ she said decisively, with a tremor in her voice that belied her words.

He reached out and, very slowly, very deliberately pulled her dress down over her legs. She shuddered, afraid that he’d be repelled by her naked body, terrified of what he was about to do her.

Sensing her fear and sensitive to her natural modesty he curbed his mounting passion, left the bed and hung her dress and jacket in his wardrobe.

‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ he murmured, lifting down a thick, towelling bathrobe from the back of the bedroom door. ‘You’re shivering, get into bed before you catch your death of cold.’

She undressed in record time, slipping between the clean, cool linen sheets, so different from the tired, furred flannelette ones her mother used.

She lay, rigid with fear wondering whether or not to remove her bloomers. He returned before she’d made a decision. Closing the door behind him he locked it and slid between the sheets, still wearing his robe.

She started at the feel of his bare legs touching hers. He rubbed his hands vigorously down her arms.

‘You’re freezing, woman,’ he complained. ‘Come closer and I’ll warm you.’

She inched towards him.

‘That wasn’t an order,’ he murmured. ‘Relax. I’m not going to hurt you, darling. Not now. Not ever.’

His mouth closed over hers. He kissed her deeply, thoroughly. His hands moved to her breasts his fingers, teasing, stroking, rousing her nipples just as they’d done the day before. She wrapped her arms around him, running her hand down beneath his robe at the back.

Gently, unhurriedly he caressed her bare skin with the tips of his fingers, sliding his hand down to her waist where it encountered the elastic of her bloomers. He pushed them aside and moved his hand into the valley between her thighs.

She clung to him, burying her head in his robe. It took all the self-control he could muster, but he managed to restrain himself until he succeeded in arousing her passion to the same pitch as his own. Only then did he open his robe and remove her one remaining garment. At that point she no longer cared about anything except Andrew and what he was doing to her.

He eased himself on top of her. She gasped as a sharp, intense pain shot through her. ‘Darling,’ he smoothed her hair away from her tear filled eyes, ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured, ‘so sorry.’

She locked her arms and legs around his body, imprisoning him in a shell of her own making. ‘Don’t stop,’ she pleaded breathlessly. ‘Please, Andrew, don’t ever stop.’

‘You bloody fool,’ Haydn shouted as he tripped over a body in the shadows on the steps of the stage entrance to the Town Hall. ‘You trying to kill someone or what?’

‘Or what,’ Eddie mumbled between thick and swollen lips.

‘Eddie?’ Haydn peered into the battered face of his brother. ‘What the hell are you doing here at this hour?’

‘Waiting.’

‘For what? Not for me, I’ll be bound. Oh God, don’t tell me. You got mixed up with one of those girls. Which one was it? Daisy? Doris?’

‘Have you seen Daisy?ʼ Eddie asked eagerly. ‘She was supposed to meet me here after the show …’ His voice faded as he realised what he was saying, and worse still, who he was saying it to.

‘She went off hours ago with the conductor,’ Haydn snapped.

‘Conductor?’

‘Band, not tram, you clot.’

‘That’s just what I am,’ Eddie mourned miserably. ‘A bloody clot … No good to anyone …’

‘You get drunk earlier?’

‘No,’ Eddie protested indignantly. ‘Why?’

‘A hangover would explain the self-pity. Look, stay here, I’ll finish checking around, give Fred a shout and walk home with you.’

Ten minutes later the two brothers were kicking their way through the litter and debris that the Rattle Fair revellers had left behind in Market Square.

‘Pity it all looks so grubby after the event,’ Haydn complained as he peeled a soggy ice-cream wafer from the sole of his shoe.

‘What does?’ Eddie asked despondently.

‘Nothing you’d know about.’ Haydn touched his cap to a woman who was pulling down the shutters on a boiled sweet stall.

The square was quiet. A few fair people and a couple of conscripts from the town were packing away the rides. They moved swiftly, unbolting, unbuckling and folding the metal structures into smaller units that could be easily stacked on the wagons that waited to transport them to the next town.

‘Want a pint?’ Haydn asked, overcome by a sudden wave of compassion for Eddie.

‘It’s after stop tap.’

‘Not if you’re in the know,’ Haydn boasted as they walked under the railway bridge and up High Street. When they came to the side door of the Horse and Groom he knocked just once above the latch. The door opened a crack and a woman peeped out.

‘Haydn!’ she shouted. ‘Everyone, it’s Haydn! Come in with you. Come in.’ She flung the door wide. ‘Who’s this you’ve brought?’ She eyed Eddie warily.

‘My brother, the boxer. Can’t you tell from his face?’

‘If you’re Haydn’s brother, you’re more than welcome.’ She closed the door behind them. ‘What’s it to be, boys? Pints?’

‘He’s buying.’ Eddie pointed to Haydn.

‘After what you won today?’

‘I didn’t place a bet on myself and get money for nothing like you.’

‘Pints will be fine, Bess.’ Haydn thrust his hand into his trouser pocket.

‘You look smart, Haydn. New suit?’ A girl with the most improbable red hair that Eddie had ever seen sidled up to them.

‘This old thing,’ Haydn fingered his lapel, ‘only had it today.’

‘You’re a scream,’ She hung on to his arm as they walked through to the back bar. Eddie looked around in amazement. The room was smokier, stuffier and packed with more people than he’d ever seen it during regular hours.

‘Haydn, give us a song boyo,’ a man Eddie didn’t know shouted as they entered the room.

‘Here, quiet everyone, Haydn’s here.’

‘Come on, Haydn, give us a song and I’ll put up pints for you and your friend,’ Wilf Horton, rather the worse for drink, shouted from across the room.

‘Friend?’ Haydn winked at Eddie. ‘Pint?’

‘Suits me.’ Eddie leaned against the wall. Haydn stood in front of the bar and a hush fell over the crowd.

A short fat man pushed his way through to a beer scarred piano that stood in the corner.

‘Rose of Tralee?’ he asked, supping his pint before setting it down on the top.

Haydn nodded. The man began to play and Haydn came in after the introduction. Eddie had heard his brother sing many times before, in church, in the choir, and around the house, but never a song like “The Rose of Tralee,” and never in a pub crowded with people none the better for drink. The rapt expectant silence continued as Haydn carried his voice into a full crescendo, and even when he reached the chorus he attracted no more than a faint humming accompaniment from the more experienced singers amongst the customers.

When the pianist finally played the last soft note the hush continued for a few more seconds, then uproar broke out. Glasses were hammered on tables, feet drummed the floor, someone cried “again” and the plea was taken up around the bar. For the first time Eddie realised that his brother had talent. Real talent. While he’d sung, he’d held the audience in his hand. He could have done anything he’d wanted with them.

‘Hey, less din!’ the landlady shouted sharply.

The noise ceased and everyone heard a hammering on the outside door.

‘I’ll deal with this, Bess,’ the landlord ordered. He walked down the passageway himself.

‘Oh God, it’s a copper,’ someone shouted as he opened the door.

Eddie pulled his cap down low over his eyes as Megan’s brother Huw entered the pub.

‘Pint, constable?’ Bess asked.

‘Pint? I should be booking everyone here.’

‘Not on fair night,’ Wilf Horton pleaded. ‘Give a man a break.’

‘Only if that lad sings “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleenˮ.’ Huw Davies’ face split into a huge grin at the joke he and the landlord had shared at the customers’ expense.

‘Well, if it’s going to keep everyone here out of clink –’ Haydn finished his pint in one draught. Before he had time to dump the empty glass on the bar another three were set before him. He pushed one over to Eddie and resumed his place in front of the crowd.

“I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen” was followed by “If I Should Fall In Love Again”.

More pints appeared, and after a drinking interval Haydn began the Al Jolson favourite “Mammy”.

‘Your Haydn’s learned a lot about phrasing and timing since he’s worked in the Town Hall.’ Huw nudged Eddie.

‘I didn’t know he was this good.’

‘Oh, he’s good all right, lad. But then talent runs in the family. Drink up. I owe you a pint after the way you boxed today. You turned my bob into ten.’

‘Cheers.’

Eddie’d never had so many free pints in his life. ‘Tell me, is it always like this?’ He jabbed his finger at the crowd while the landlord pulled two more pints.

‘Only on Christmas Eve and Rattle Fair day when the lads have had a chance to earn an extra bob or two helping to put up the stalls and rides. First time here after hours?’