Living in the Shadows (3 page)

And all that war stuff was in the past.

She heaved a long sigh, the queasy exhilaration in her stomach making her restless. But, until Seth came for her in the morning, she had to wait. She’d wanted to go in the night, to get right away before her parents woke but he’d said no; he wasn’t spending another ten hours on the road without a
sleep
(he’d leered, grinning, as he said the word and she’d blushed, hoping the others hadn’t noticed). But she supposed he was right; it was a long way, especially in the dark.

So she’d tried to persuade him to let her go to him as soon as her parents left the cottage, to meet him at the camper van but he’d told her not to; he was adamant they would come for her. She didn’t understand why she had to wait. But she’d agreed in the end.

Gelert, their Alsation, nuzzled her hand and followed her when she went through to the living-room and over to the window. The road was empty. Beyond the trees across the road the grey sea shifted slowly, the waves sluggish on the shoreline.

She sighed, turned and sat on the window-sill, lifted her arms and let them drop again. She liked the jangling of the bangles as they fell so she repeated the action twice more. She glanced at the bookshelves. After packing the new clothes she’d been secretly buying over the last few months – the frayed bell-bottomed jeans, two tie-dyed shirts and, best of all the purple, flowing chiffon kaftan – on top of her art stuff, she’d hesitated over one or two of her books. But Seth had told her last night to travel light. Still, she’d slipped in one of her records. She was sure he’d approve of Joan Baez and ‘We Shall Overcome’
.

Absently stroking the dog leaning against her, his front paws on the windowsill, she studied the family photographs on the wall. There were loads of her and Richard. Always together; she couldn’t remember ever having had her photo taken on her own. All at once it was vital she looked for one. She pushed the dog away, went over to the cupboard that the music centre was on, riffled through the boxes of photographs, invoices and receipts and miscellaneous papers. Not one photo on her own; always with Richard.
Byth yn blydi teg
, she thought: never bloody fair. She felt justified in her resentment: looking back it was always him who was the important one, she’d always been in his shadow. She banged the cupboard door closed, remembered there were more photos in the old roll-top desk on the landing.

Gelert followed close on her heels when she ran upstairs, just as he had for the last hour.

Unlike the rest of the house there was always a jumble of things in the desk. Opening the lid, she went through the top drawer: old papers fastened together with a bulldog-clip, lists, an old wallet. Why Mum hadn’t thrown half of this stuff away she’d never know. She pushed a glasses-case, with the arm of a broken pair poking out, to the back of the drawer and slammed it shut.

Tilting her head she listened for the sound of an engine. But all she could hear was the pounding of the pulse in her ears and the low breathy whine of the dog. She pulled the second drawer right out, tipped the contents onto the desk-top and scattered them. A pile of small photographs spilled out of an envelope. Most looked quite old. And then she found one: a picture of her on her own. She looked about three years old. One arm was held out to her side. Holding it closer to her face she could see a small hand holding hers. Must have been Richard but somehow whoever was taking it hadn’t got it right.

A tiny photograph fluttered off the desk-top. Victoria picked it up and studied it; it looked quite old and was a picture of a woman, plump with curly hair and a wide smile on her face. She turned it over and read the words on the back; ‘Gwyneth, Llamroth, 1950’. She shoved the two pictures into her skirt-pocket, pushed the drawer back into its rightful place and cleared the desktop with one sweep of her arm but then hesitated. Nobody would miss a few pictures. And, despite the rows, she still loved her mum and dad. So it would be good to have a few family memories with her while she was away. She took the envelope.

Moving swiftly to the landing window she checked her watch. ‘Come on, Seth, it’s nearly half nine. You said half nine.’

‘Make sure the “oldies” are out of the way in the morning,’ was what he’d said. She wished he wouldn’t call them that. But he was right; they were old … and old fashioned. Not like him and the group. Her group, he’d said in the last letter. She pulled it out of the pocket in her long skirt and skimmed through the words … ‘your group now, your new family … we can’t wait for you to join us … a whole new life, an exciting new world will be yours… All my love, Seth.’

All my love, Seth. His love. The quiver in the depths of her stomach returned. He’d proved his love for her last night. She put the paper to her mouth and kissed his name, carefully sliding it back into its envelope before pushing it into her skirt-pocket again.

In her bedroom she checked herself in the mirror. She thought he would approve of how she was dressed. She adjusted the beaded band around her forehead, pulled the peasant blouse further down her arms to show more of the red flower design she’d painted on her shoulder and flicked her blonde hair back, turning one way and then the other to admire the effect. Her long cotton skirt made a soft swishing sound as it flowed around her legs.

The grandfather clock chimed a slow deep note. Half past nine. Richard would be on the train now. In a way she wished she’d been able to confide in him, tell him what she planned to do, despite her jealousy. There weren’t many secrets she kept from him, but Seth was one of them.

Mum and Dad would be on their way back.

Anxious, she hurried downstairs, almost tripping over the dog. ‘Out of the way, Gelert,’ she yelled, then bent down and hugged him quickly.

As she pushed the photographs into her rucksack and drew the ties together a horn sounded, then there were lots of shouts. Gelert barked. He ran to the window and stood again with his front paws on the sill, looking out and growling. Seth was standing on the frame of the door of the yellow Volkswagen camper, the sides and roof festooned with painted flowers. He was banging the flat of his hand on the horn and laughing. The others were standing alongside, smiling and beckoning her. She laughed, waved back and slipped her feet into her sandals.

Balancing the duffle-bag on the back of the settee, she loosened the tie and peered inside: a last check that she’d got everything.

Gelert whined. Victoria hesitated, suddenly stilled by the enormity of what she was doing. A panicky feeling rose in her throat; what the hell
was
she doing? She dropped her duffle-bag and held on to the back of the settee. The dog took hold of one of the straps and some of her things were strewn onto the floor. ‘Leave it, Gelert.’ Her voice choked in her throat. She tussled with him to get it back, tears falling onto his head, and went into the kitchen. There she took one of his biscuits out of the tin in the cupboard and knelt alongside him, giving him the biscuit and a hug. ‘Sorry, boy,’ she whispered, ‘need to go.’

She stood up and, looking into the kitchen mirror, blew her nose and wiped the smudged mascara from under her eyes. Idiot, she thought. This was what she wanted. She slung her bag on her shoulder and shook her skirt to make sure it flowed around her legs as she moved.

Without a second glance, she slammed the cottage door behind her.

The envelope holding the letter from Seth fluttered in the draught and slid under the settee.

Chapter 5: William Howarth

Ashford, evening: Wednesday, September 17th

‘There’s one more to look at before you knock off.’ Patrick Howarth threw a set of keys across to his nephew, who was drying his hands on a piece of towelling. ‘Mini on the forecourt. Wouldn’t start. Jack’s just towed it in.’

Bloody Jack – shouldn’t even be in the garage, William Booth thought. His cousin was on leave, for God’s sake why hadn’t he just stayed away, met up with his Army pals, stopped at home? Anything but bugger about in the garage, bloody messing everything up.

‘I’ve finished for the day,’ he protested, pulling at the front of his overall until the press-studs popped open. ‘I told you this morning. I said I had to get done early; I’m meeting our Richard off the train.’

‘You’re done when I say so.’

‘I’ve finished all the jobs that were on the list.’ William felt the stirrings of anger. He pushed the legs of his overalls down with his feet and stepped out of them. He knew what Patrick was playing at; he didn’t like Uncle Peter just because he was German. But William didn’t understand why Patrick had carried that dislike forward to his nephew and niece.

‘Won’t do him any harm to wait a few minutes.’ Patrick scowled, then grinned. ‘Don’t think you’ll grumble when you see the driver. Tasty bit of stuff.’

William hated the way his uncle eyed-up all the women customers – as though they’d fancy him, with his belly hanging over his trousers and his careful comb-over. ‘I’ll have a look at the car. But if it’s a big job it’ll have to wait ’til morning.’

‘It bloody won’t.’

It bloody will, William thought. He turned away from Patrick. In all the five years he’d worked at his uncle’s garage he’d kept his temper. But one of these days the man would be sorry. Jobs were two-a-penny and garages were crying out for good mechanics. And William knew that he was good at his job. ‘I said I’ll have a look.’

His uncle was right, though. The girl standing by the red Mini with the Union Jack roof was really pretty. Not as lovely as his Susan, but pretty. Her black hair streamed over a white short-sleeved crocheted top. A pink jacket, casually wrapped around her shoulders, matched the shortest skirt William had ever seen. How the hell does she get in and out of that car without showing all she’s got, he thought.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘What happened, then?’ He dipped his head towards the car.

‘It just sort of stuttered and then stopped. I’m sorry,’ she added, ‘I heard you say you were finishing. But I’m desperate. I promised my … my stepfather I wouldn’t be late tonight. My mother’s in hospital … she’s … in hospital,’ she repeated. ‘I’m supposed to be visiting her.’

‘No problem. Let’s have a look.’ He sat in the driver’s seat with one leg out of the car and turned the key. Seconds later he was cursing Jack. No petrol. The dozy bugger must have known what was wrong with the blasted vehicle. He was evidently out to make a bit of extra cash before he went off to Northern Ireland. William felt a twinge of guilt for the irritation. He and Jack had never got on but according to what was in the news it was a bad situation he was being sent into.

The self-reproach rapidly disappeared; Jack was all for going over there. Apparently it was what he’d signed up for – to ‘sort out the bastards’, he’d heard Jack say on more than one occasion. ‘Wilson has the right idea, sending in the Army.’

There was no point in arguing with him. He’d always been arrogant. Just like his dad.

And it wasn’t this girl’s fault that William felt so aggravated. Taking a deep breath, he said, ‘You’ve run out of petrol.’

‘Oh.’ The girl blushed. ‘I’m sorry. I haven’t been driving long and my … stepfather usually takes it to the garage for me.’ She moved from one foot to the other, wobbling on her knee-high silver boots.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll soon have you back on the road.’ He took the handbrake off and, pushing the car nearer the pumps, unscrewed the petrol cap.

Even though he was watching the gauge he could sense the girl’s tension. ‘It’s full now,’ he said, putting the nozzle back into place. ‘That’s three pounds ten.’

‘Keep the change.’ She pushed four one-pound notes in his hand.

‘No, I didn’t do anything.’ He jerked his head towards the garage. ‘I suppose they’ve already charged you for towing in?’

‘Yes. But it was my own fault. Please, take it.’ She moved quickly, folding herself into the car and closing the door. ‘Thanks again.’

William sucked on his lower lip, watching her pull out too fast into the traffic. He frowned, then shrugged.

Putting the money in the till in the corner of the garage he took out a ten-shilling note. He’d earned it. And it was better in his pocket than his greedy uncle’s.

‘I’ve gone.’ He tossed the words over his shoulder towards Patrick, shoving his arms into his leather jacket and then jamming his crash helmet on.

Jack was standing astride the Triumph Trophy.

‘Get off,’ William snapped.

‘Make me.’ Jack grinned.

‘You wouldn’t want me to do that.’ William folded his arms. ‘Now get off my fucking bike.’

Slowly, still sniggering, his cousin swung his leg over the seat of the bike, deliberately kicking it.

Gritting his teeth, William caught hold of the handlebars to stop it falling. He lifted the stand with his foot and rocked the bike on its wheels before opening the throttle and kick starting the engine.

With a bit of luck he might just get to the station before the train arrived.

Chapter 6: Richard Schormann

Bradlow, evening: Wednesday, September 17th

Richard Schormann swung the door of the carriage open and stepped down onto the platform at Bradlow. The damp air held the acrid taste of diesel. The draught, scattering dropped tickets and litter, snaked around his ankles. He shivered and glanced around. No sign of his cousin.

He went into the waiting-room, put his suitcase onto one of the seats and felt in his pocket for his hearing-aids. He’d been glad to take them out as soon as he lost sight of his parents, standing arm-in-arm and frantically waving, on the bridge over the railway at Pont-y-Haven. Settling down in his seat and pulling the hood of his parka as far as possible over his face he’d slept, woke, watched passing coastline, fields, the backs of dreary houses and, from under his hood, the ever-moving silent mouths of his fellow passengers.

Now he fitted the aids around each ear and sounds came rushing back: shouts, the thud of feet as the last few passengers left the platform, the hoot of the whistle and the rumble of the train as it ground slowly along the rails and out of the station.