Love and War (31 page)

‘Where’s the Head?’

No-one seems to know. We all half-expect him to burst through the door – he always bursts through doors – but he doesn’t.

‘Right,’ Jack says, bounding on to the platform, ‘Everyone turn. Now walk quietly to your classrooms. Lead out, Form Six.’

‘Has he been called up, Miss?’ a little lad from 2C asks me. ‘if he was in the Army, Miss, would he have to take orders?’

‘That’s enough, Owen. The Head doesn’t have to ask your permission to take a morning off school. He’s probably got a committee meeting.’

‘Can we have a holiday, Miss? Can we have a quiz? Can we have a spelling bee? Oh, not lessons, Miss. Not today, Miss.’

It’s strange without him, peaceful but oddly disturbing at the same time.

‘Where is he?’ I ask Talfan in the lunch-hour.

‘Don’t know. He had someone to deal with, that’s all he told me, and Heaven help him or her, whoever it may be. Anyway, I shall have a nervous breakdown if he’s not back by tomorrow. Everyone seems to think I’m supposed to be in charge. Up to now being Deputy Head has only meant having tea with the governors once a month – and that’s bad enough.’

In fact, the Head is back before the end of the afternoon. I know because I’m called to his room.

‘Sit down, Mrs Evans. Right, I won’t beat about the bush. I’ve been to see an erstwhile colleague of yours, Miss Mary Powell.’

‘Really. How is she?’

He gives me a long, baleful look. ‘I didn’t go to enquire after her health. No, I went because she’d sent me a filthy, anonymous letter.’

He passes me the letter, a thick white envelope, the address in bold black capitals. My hand shakes as I open it.

I think you should know that one of your staff, Mrs Rhian

Evans, is an adulterous woman not fit to be in charge of

innocent young people. One who knows.

I manage to keep my voice fairly steady. ‘How did you know it was from Mary Powell? It’s postmarked Shrewsbury.’
How she hates me
.

His eyes flash at me. ‘How did I know? How do I know who locks the girls in the changing room? How do I know who chalks dirty words on the blackboard? Because I’ve made it my business to know these things. I know my pupils. I know my parents. I know my staff. Because I’ve made it my business to know them. There’s not much that John Cynrig Williams doesn’t know about his school.’

He sits back in his chair as though expecting a round of applause.

‘What happened?’ I ask quietly.
I can feel her hatred crushing me.

‘What happened? I took her to the police station and got her to sign a confession. A bit brutal you think? Well, I can tell you one thing: kindness is rarely any use when dealing with the writers of filthy letters. Perhaps you’ll be a Headmistress one day, so it’s as well I should give you the benefit of my experience. Any more questions?’

‘Will they make any charges against her?’
She hates me, but I can’t blame her.

‘They won’t clap her in prison, if that’s what you mean. No. But they have her confession. She’s not daft, she’ll think twice before writing any more nasty little letters. I would have got another confession out of her to show Jack Jones except that I’ve washed my hands of that unfortunate business.’

‘She’s released him from their engagement.’

‘What? She has? Why doesn’t someone tell me these things?’

‘I thought you’d have made it your business to find out.’

‘Very good. A quick stab below the belt is an excellent tactic. You’re learning fast, Mrs Evans. You’ll be a credit to me, yet.’

‘Her mother died in an asylum.’
But I still attacked her in the churchyard.

I’ve taken him by surprise again, but he quickly recovers. ‘So? Her mother died in an asylum. Does that give her licence to spread filth amongst people?’

‘No. But marching her to a police station might be considered a little harsh under the circumstances.’
But no more harsh than my harsh words.

‘So what exactly would you have done?’

‘I’ve no idea.’
I was certainly never charitable towards her
.

‘Oh, I’m sure you’d have been very kind, very understanding. But as I’ve said, kindness doesn’t work with poison letters. You may go now, Mrs Evans. Oh, and by the way, you’ll be receiving a letter of apology from Miss Powell. Needless to say, it won’t contain a shred of genuine remorse, but writing it may have done her some good.’

‘I suppose you suggested that?’
Was anyone ever kind to her?

‘Suggested it? I stood over her while she wrote it.’

I get up to go. ‘Thank you Mr Williams.’

‘Oh, I enjoyed it. The break from routine was very pleasant. And, look, I’ve even made you smile.’

Nineteen

AT SCHOOL I try to appear normal, pushing my grief further and further down inside me like someone trying to pack too much shopping into too small a bag. By the end of the day I’m exhausted with the effort and drag myself home to bed, where I lie flat and quite still till Ilona gets back from work. Crying would do me good, I know, but the pain has become hard as granite, I can’t cry.

The summer evenings are lovely. Sometimes Ilona and I go to sit on the sea wall to watch the setting sun – we’ve had a month of superb sunsets – but somehow we always end up thinking and talking about the war. I suppose it would be worse if we were on the South coast facing Normandy, but since the invasion, the war seems very close, even here. We’re told on every news bulletin that our losses are fewer than expected, but people are still living in fear of that telegram from the War Office. I know I am.

‘Do you pray, Ilona?’

‘Good Lord, no. I gave that up the day they took my tonsils out. I was about eleven, I think. I’d stayed awake all the previous night praying and praying that I should be cured without an operation. Well, it didn’t work, did it, so that when I came round from the anaesthetic it was without tonsils or God. And to be truthful I’ve never missed either.’

The air is rinsed after the light rain. The sky is a clean, bright pink.

‘I think there is a God, but perhaps the only valid prayers are those for greater understanding.’

Ilona’s eyes are direct and a little too sharp. ‘Greater understanding of what?’

‘Of His nature, the nature of His love and mercy. If we could understand, perhaps we could accept. I can’t seem to understand or accept Gwynn’s death.’

‘Of course you can’t. He was killed by a bomb. Who can accept bombs? There’s precious little of love and mercy about bombs.’

Ilona, bright about lots of things, is seldom at her best when it comes to theological discussion. I only manage to peer through the glass darkly, but she seems intent on looking the other way.

I decide to change the subject. ‘I feel really guilty about school. I can’t seem to rouse myself from this apathy. I don’t seem to care about my exam results or my reports. I don’t care about anything.’

‘Why should you? You’ve already worked too hard in that school. Don’t give it another thought. Oh, you’ll be much better at the end of term. When we leave this place, you’ll have other things to think about, other people to meet and make friends with. I’m longing to get away.’

‘It’s all right for you. You’re going home to your family and soon you’ll have a new baby as well.’

‘But my family will really take to you Rhian, because you’re so genteel. They’re a rough lot, my family, very impressed by quiet people who don’t drink or swear. And as for the baby, you shall take it out for me every afternoon. Ifor’s getting me a new pram.’

‘Will you be seeing a lot of Ifor? Will people know it’s his baby?’

‘I suppose so. I suppose it will look like him; fat with sandy hair and a big lump of a nose. Jesus, what do I see in him? He’s bad-tempered and ugly and unreliable. Why are women so stupid? By the way, I saw your mother-in-law in Finch Square this afternoon and she smiled at me quite kindly. What can it mean? Is she plotting something?’

‘I really don’t know. She baffles me; I expected all sorts of trouble from her, but she’s been almost too quiet. And I expected Huw’s father to try and turn me out of the house, but not a word. I can’t understand it.’

‘Perhaps they’re counting on you changing your mind, so that they’ll be sitting back ready to forgive and forget.’

‘No, I’m sure they could never forgive me. And I think they must have sent Huw the letter I wrote, because I haven’t heard from him for three weeks now. Oh, I hope he’s safe. I’ll feel so wretched if anything happens to him; responsible, somehow.’

‘Great Heavens, girl, you can’t hold yourself responsible for a war. Have some humility. Pull yourself together. You’ll be thinking you’re God next. Like your Head.’

‘He doesn’t think he’s God. Just a minor saint. Saint John Cynrig Williams... You know, I used to hate him, but I’m getting quite fond of him now that I’m leaving. I’ll miss him when I go. And I’ll miss Jack, of course.’

‘I’ll miss Jack, too. God, if I was anything like sane, I’d marry him.’

‘Has he asked you to?’

‘About a hundred times. He’s coming round later on to make it a hundred and one. Hey, we’d better go home or we’ll miss him.’

‘Poor Jack. He hasn’t had much luck with women.’

‘He has. He got away from that dopey Mary Powell and very soon he’ll be free of me. That’s wonderful luck. Who’ll he be after next I wonder?’

We don’t get back until half past nine. Ilona doesn’t seem too concerned that she’s missed Jack.

‘Do you think I look pregnant?’ she asks me as we’re clearing up before going to bed.

‘Well, you don’t stick out in one big lump in the front. You could be just fat, I suppose. I mean, fatter than you were. Why?’

‘I heard Myfanwy Jenkins whispering something to Katie Lloyd this morning, both of them staring at my belly. I suppose they know. They pretended to believe me when I told them I was having to go back home to nurse Nain, but I don’t suppose they did.’

‘Do you mind?’

‘No. As long as Jack’s name isn’t dragged into it. I wouldn’t want them to think badly of Jack. Perhaps I shouldn’t go out with him from now on.’

‘Oh, stop being so conventional. Why shouldn’t people gossip? There’s precious little entertainment these days. Give them something to enjoy.’

The next evening, when we’ve just finished washing up, there’s a knock at the door and Ilona goes to answer it. I’m hoping she and Jack will go out for a walk and a drink, because I’ve got some reports to write.

‘It’s Gwynn’s wife,’ Ilona says, rushing back into the living room looking wild and flustered. It’s Mrs Morgan – Celine – shall I ask her in?’

‘You’ll have to, I suppose.’

I stand up too quickly and feel dizzy. I haven’t seen her since the funeral. I straighten my hair in the mirror. I look terrible, my eyes are suddenly burning and my lips feel parched.

‘Come in.’ My voice sounds high and unnatural. ‘Won’t you sit down? Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘And a raspberry bun?’ she asks dryly.

‘You never liked raspberry buns,’ I reply, as smoothly as I can, ‘so it’s just as well that I haven’t any.’

‘I won’t have tea either, thank you. It will be a very brief visit.’

She’s dressed in a plain black dress with a pearl choker round her neck. She’s lost weight and looks older than she did, but very smart, very French. I remember Gwynn telling me that she never went out of the house without an hour’s preparation.

I wait for her to continue. I run my tongue round my lips. I can’t think of anything to say.

‘I called because I heard you were leaving Llanfair.’

I clear my throat again. ‘This is my lodger, Ilona Hughes. This is Mrs Morgan, Ilona.’

‘Yes, we introduced ourselves,’ Ilona says. Even she seems subdued. She sits in a chair opposite Celine, as though to keep an eye on her.

‘I was grateful to you,’ Celine says, ‘for being so calm and discreet at the funeral. It might have been very different.’

‘I’m sure you’d have coped with anything.’

‘No, I don’t always manage to keep my head. As you know. How is Jack? He still calls, but we play cards, we don’t talk. Is he still involved with that hysterical woman? That Mary Powell? I don’t ask him.’

‘No, that seems over. He’s quite well I think. He may be calling here soon, he and Ilona sometimes go to the pub together.’

‘To the Ship? You don’t go with them? Why is that?’

I shrug my shoulders. Why has she come? What does she want?

‘Are you very un ’appy?’ she continues.

‘Of course I am. How can you ask?’

‘He told me about your plans.’ I can see a muscle move in her throat.

‘We had plans, yes.’

‘He was going to leave me, but I still wish he was alive and not dead. Do you believe that?’

‘Of course I do. You loved him.’

‘Do you think love lasts, then, even after... even after one has been rejected for another woman?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say miserably. ‘But I should think it might. Especially a long-standing love. You were married for twenty years. You’ve got twenty years to look back on.’