One Blue Moon (12 page)

‘They’ll do.’ He peered at the side of the box. ‘Twenty-one shillings ...’

‘I haven’t any money, Mr Springer.’

‘Seeing as how you need them to work here, I’ll sell them to you for eighteen.’

‘I can’t afford that,’ she protested.

‘Course you can, girl. Sixpence a week.’

Diana’s heart sank to her boots. With her wages knocked down to five shillings and sixpence a week, she’d only have one and sixpence for herself. And knowing her aunt, she’d have to buy all her own soap, for washing her clothes as well as herself. By the time she bought bread for her lunch out of what was left over she wouldn’t be able to afford a Sunday cup of tea in Ronnie’s, let alone a weekly visit to the pictures.

‘Now let me see,’ Ben pondered slow-wittedly. ‘That’s sixpence a week for thirty-six weeks. I’ll just make out a card.’ He reached past her to where a stack of ‘tally’ cards was piled up and as he did so his hand brushed against her breast. She moved back quickly, unsure whether his touch was calculated or inadvertent.

‘Well now that I’ve provided you with shoes, you’ve no excuse to dally,’ he said, apparently unaware of her unease. ‘Come on, get a move on. There’s an apron next to the polish, you’d better make sure you keep your skirt clean.’

‘Yes, Mr Springer.’

‘I told you “sir” once. I’ll not remind you again.’

‘Yes, sir.’ She picked up the polish and a rag and left the stockroom for the front of the shop. She wasn’t sorry to move. She’d felt extremely uneasy, confined in such a small space with Ben Springer.

By half-past seven she’d polished every inch of dark oak wood that was on view. Her arm ached, and her fingers were bright red from the effort it had taken to keep a grip on the slimy rag. She paused for a moment, standing back to admire the long run of gleaming counter and dust-free edges of the shelves. Ben had even made her polish the two wooden shoe fitting stands.

‘The carpet now,’ he barked from the stool where he was counting change into the till, ‘and tomorrow you’d better work a lot faster. The till should be Brassoed every morning, but there’s no time for you to do it now.’

She was sweeping the last of the dust into a cracked and warped metal pan when the door opened and the first customer of the day walked in.

‘So this is what you’ve hired, Ben Springer?’ An extremely large lady dressed in a navy cape coat, which lay unflatteringly tight over her thick arms and wide shoulders, towered above Diana. Diana’s eyes were on a level with the woman’s ankles. Wreathed in rolls of flabby fat, they spilled over the top of her elaborately decorated, expensive leather court shoes. ‘Well, stand up, girl; let’s take a look at you!’

Diana rose slowly to her feet. The woman’s face was puffy, swollen by layers of fat that matched those on her ankles. Her small, greedy eyes darted unnervingly in deep sockets set beneath a low forehead, crowned by a navy felt Tyrolean hat held in place with two enormous, pearl-headed pins.

‘Do you think she’ll do, Beatrice?’ To Diana’s amazement her employer was suddenly transformed from shop owner, manager and bully to servile lackey.

‘I hope you ascertained that before you took her on.’

‘It’s not easy to find good help these days.’

‘As we’ve found out to our cost,’ Mrs Springer pronounced heavily. It was obvious from the curl of Beatrice Springer’s lower lip that Diana did not meet with her approval, but she was totally unprepared for her next question.

‘Is that rouge I see on your lips and cheeks, girl?’

‘No, Mrs Springer,’ Diana faltered, wondering if she should address her as ma’am, as she’d been taught to address the senior female staff in the Infirmary.

‘Hmm. Naturally florid complexion then.’ Beatrice Springer made it sound like a disease. ‘Turn around, girl.’

Feeling intimidated and humiliated, Diana did as Beatrice commanded.

‘Your blouse is tight.’

‘I’ve put on weight lately,’ Diana lied.

‘Comes of being unemployed and idle. Tell me – the truth, mind – when was the last full day of work that you put in?’

‘Last Friday,’ Diana protested spiritedly. ‘I’ve only just left the Infirmary in Cardiff. I was working as a ward maid –’

‘You don’t have to tell me any more,’ Mrs Springer cut her short. ‘When my husband told me that he’d taken on a new girl, I made it my business to find out all I could about you. Diana Powell, isn’t it? From Leyshon Street?’

‘I live with my uncle and aunt now in Graig Avenue.’

‘And I know why.’ She glared at Diana. ‘Take after your mother?’

Diana felt silent. Experience had taught her that it was the best thing to do whenever anyone brought up the subject of her mother.

‘Just as long as you know that I’ll be watching you.’ Mrs Springer crossed her stubby arms across her ample bosom. ‘And to let you know that we – that’s both me and Mr Springer – will be a great deal more fussy about someone who works for us than a supervisor in an Infirmary who hasn’t got their own place and their own trade to worry about. So before you do anything else, I suggest you sweep out the shop again. There’s dust in the corners. Mr Springer, being a man, may not always notice sloppy, half-hearted cleaning, but I warn you I always do.’

‘Yes, Mrs Springer. Diana sank to her knees again, wondering if there was a chance that Ronnie would open his restaurant before she answered either of the Springers back. Or if she’d soon find herself unemployed again.

Chapter Eleven

‘Hey listen to this, Haydn, Maud,’ Eddie held up the copy of the
Pontypridd Observer
that he had found folded behind the cushion of Evan’s chair and read out:

‘“Do the general public realise the skill, patience and practice necessary to perfect an act like that presented by Mr Willi Pantzer and his wonderful troupe of performing midgets at the New Town Hall, Pontypridd next week? We think not. Willi Pantzer is a lifelong vaudeville artist, he and his little men have been together many years, and his search for midgets is never ending.” What do you think, Haydn? Worth shrinking for, eh? He may even offer you a contract,’ Eddie mocked.

Haydn had burned in a fever of ambition ever since he had turned down Ambrose’s offer to join his revue, and Jenny’s absence from his life hadn’t helped one bit. He’d bored William, Eddie, Maud and Diana to screaming pitch with extrapolations of ‘might have beens’ until Eddie was ready to seize any opportunity to get his own back.

‘Don’t be cruel, Eddie,’ Maud said primly from the depths of her mother’s chair. Her bedroom and the easy chairs in the kitchen still encompassed her entire world. But like wishful children, her family clung to the entirely irrational hope that the excitement of Christmas, followed by a warm spring, would bring a visible improvement to her health.

‘I’m not being cruel,’ Eddie insisted, a mischievous glint in his eyes. ‘Who knows where an opportunity like this could lead?’ He rustled the paper ostentatiously and continued to read. ‘“His present company includes midgets of all nationalities,” – there’s your big chance now, Haydn,’ he suggested gravely. ‘He may not have a Welsh one.’

Haydn picked up the cat that was sleeping peacefully on one of the wooden chairs and threw it at him.

‘Haydn, you’ll hurt it!’ Maud protested, as the cat sank its claws into Eddie’s trouser legs and scrammed him.

‘Ow!’ Eddie screeched, as the cat fled. Undeterred, he carried on reading. ‘“A great little artiste is Willi Pantzer. He creates most of the comedy and enacts the role of Jack Dempsey in the boxing ring” – Hey do you think you could put a word in for me? This could be the start of a whole new career.’

‘Only if you allow me to chop your legs off,’ Haydn said viciously, furious with Eddie for daring to joke about feelings that were painfully tender.

‘I’m sorry for getting your hopes up, Haydn; they wouldn’t want you after all. Listen to this: “Willi Pantzer’s troupe are all modest, genial little fellows.” That leaves all bad-tempered growly bears like you out. “Mr Willi Pantzer is an athlete, boxer and wrestler and in addition he models in papier mâché, wonderful little dolls he uses in the Pantzer Trot.” What do you say Will? Worth going to see, just for the dolls?’

‘Eddie if you don’t shut up, I’ll shut you up,’ Maud threatened as a thunderous look crossed Haydn’s face.

They all fell silent. None of the boys smiled at her ridiculous outburst. Maud’s ill-health hung, a dark and gloomy portent of the inevitability of death, over the entire household.

‘You walking down the hill, Haydn?’ William asked, breaking into the oppressive atmosphere. It was late on a foul and filthy Thursday afternoon. So foul that Eddie and Evan, having nothing to do except call the streets, had packed in their carting at midday. Charlie and William had finished early in the slaughterhouse. Setting up their stall for the Friday trade in record time, they had returned home early, much to Elizabeth’s delight. She had tea on the table before five o’clock, and put Diana’s meal on top of a saucepan of water on the shelf above the stove so it could be heated up later. Then she’d rushed down the hill to catch the six o’clock bus for her Uncle John Joseph’s house in Ton Pentre. She’d organised his move from the Graig; now she was busy organising his furniture in the new house.

Evan and Charlie had left straight after tea for the Institute for the Unemployed in Mill Street. Although neither of them were unemployed in the strict sense of the word, like dozens of others they used the centre as a meeting place, especially on nights when Evan couldn’t scrape together the money for a half of mild in any of the pubs.

‘As I’m working in half an hour I suppose I’d better make a move,’ Haydn said miserably.

‘Nothing like it, boyo,’ William grinned. ‘You may have Willi Pantzer and his performing midgets next week, but this week you have some cracking chorus girls. Saw one going through the stage door yesterday that brought tears to my eyes.’

‘A redhead, wearing a blue, fur-trimmed coat?’

‘That’s the little beauty.’

‘Stuck-up madam, more like it.’

‘Enjoyed that, did you?’

‘What?’ Haydn asked in bewilderment.

‘Shattering my dreams.’ William pulled a comb out of his pocket and ran it through hair so heavily Vaselined it barely moved. ‘You ready or not?’ He winked at Maud. ‘Tell that sister of mine to catch up on some rest. Shops close on Thursday afternoons for the staff to enjoy time off, not scrub the place out.’

‘She’s still trying to make a good impression.’

‘Nothing would make a good impression on Ben Springer.’

‘You be all right if I walk down with them, Maud?’ Eddie asked.

‘Of course I will,’ she retorted. ‘I’ll enjoy the peace and quiet.’

‘That’s a nice thing to say to your brother.’

‘Fight coming up soon?’ William asked.

‘Not until the Easter Rattle Fair.’

‘Don’t expect to clean up this year like you did last,’ Haydn warned. ‘They know your face now, boy.’

‘Just practise for the big time. Joey says that if I do well enough at Easter he’ll take me up to Blackpool this summer.’

Maud had to force herself to hold her tongue. She’d never liked Eddie’s boxing any more than her mother or sister had. In their opinion the dangers far outweighed any rewards.

‘Right, if we’re going, we’d better go.’ Haydn picked up his cap from the back of the chair, where he’d left it to dry, and patted Maud on the head.

‘I’m not a dog.’

‘No, but you’re too big to kiss goodbye.’

William finished lacing on his boots, then with Eddie trailing in the rear the boys left.

The house was remarkably still. Maud lay back in her chair, listening to the quiet sounds she’d associated with home since childhood. The dull tick of the kitchen clock that had been a wedding present to her mother from her Uncle John Joseph. A soft hiss, as a damp piece of coal crumbled into the flames in the stove, probably one of the pieces that Eddie or Will had risked prosecution over on one of their scavenging trips to the Maritime tip. She’d seen their blackened hands and faces when they’d sneaked in over the back wall after adding their ill-gotten spoils to the meagre stock in the coalhouse when her mother wasn’t looking.

‘Hello, anyone in?’ The front door slammed and footsteps echoed on the lino in the passage.

‘Ronnie?’ Half asleep, Maud peered through the gloom as Ronnie’s tall figure emerged from the shadows that lay thickly in the corner by the door.

‘Just passing, so I thought I’d call in and see how the boys are doing. Haydn must be about ready to walk down the hill.’

‘They’ve already gone to town,’ Maud said, expecting him to walk straight back out again. Instead he came closer to the fire and pulled his hat off.

‘Leaving you all alone?’

She bristled at the hint of criticism. ‘It’s nice to be alone sometimes,’ she replied tartly.

‘I know what you mean.’ He took off his rain-spattered coat and hung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Walking over to the range, he placed his hand against the side of the teapot.

‘No one will be back for ages.’ She resented him intruding into her peace and quiet and wanted him to go so she could sit back and dream. Of Jock Maitlin, the porter in the Infirmary who’d shown more than a passing interest in her. Of the career in nursing that she’d wanted so badly, and now realised she’d never have.

‘Not even Diana and your parents?’

‘My father and Charlie have gone to a meeting in the Unemployed Club.’

‘The anti-Mosley meeting?’

‘I really don’t know, I don’t pay much attention. My mother’s gone to Uncle Joe’s and won’t be back until late. And Diana’s –’

‘As soon as Diana finishes work she’s meeting Tina to go to the pictures,’ Ronnie told her. ‘When Tina saw Ben Springer walk into the bank this morning, she ran to the shoe shop and persuaded her. I sometimes wonder if those two have anything on their minds other than what they read in Hollywood star magazines. Where’s William?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘You know Will?’ she answered carelessly.

‘Yes I do,’ he frowned, thinking how often Tina had gone to the pictures with Diana lately. ‘Want some tea?’ He held up the cold teapot.

‘No thank you,’ Maud refused primly, suddenly conscious of being totally alone in the house with him. Her mother’s warnings about placing herself in a vulnerable position with a man, any man, rang clearly through her mind. Then she remembered how long Ronnie had been a friend to her family, and the vast difference in their ages. Sickness was making her paranoid. The problem was she’d never really had a boyfriend, only dreams. She couldn’t even count Jock Maitlin, they’d never actually gone anywhere together. Diana was right: doing a man’s washing and darning his socks was no substitute for romance.

She allowed herself to drift into a cold, comfortless tide of self-pity. Looking the way she did now, she’d never experience love first-hand. And unless she made a remarkable recovery she wouldn’t even be seeing it on a cinema screen again.

The sound of Ronnie replacing the teapot on the shelf above the range jolted her back to the present. She watched him as he settled into the easy chair opposite her own.

‘Don’t you ever get fed up of the same four walls?’ he asked, tapping a cigarette out of a packet he’d removed from his shirt pocket.

‘A little,’ she admitted reluctantly.

‘The Trojan’s outside. It’s not the most comfortable of rides, but I could take you down to the café for an hour or two. Gina and Angelo are there, and Alma,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘I don’t know,’ she murmured hesitantly. The prospect excited her, but she knew her mother, and probably her father, would quite rightly be furious when they found out what she’d done. As they undoubtedly would. Pontypridd was no place for secrets.

‘Come on,’ Ronnie coaxed, ‘I’ll have you down and back before half-past seven. No one will be any the wiser,’ he smiled.

The smile decided the matter for her. ‘All right,’ she said resolutely.

‘You’ll have to dress up warm,’ he commanded in the tone of voice he usually reserved for his eight-year-old sister and six-year-old brother.

‘You can’t get much warmer than what I’ve got on,’ she protested strongly.

‘That’s just the problem. You’ve been sitting in thick clothes in a warm room for weeks. A strong dose of real, fresh air is likely to ... knock you for six,’ he said quickly, almost kicking himself. He’d almost said ‘finish you off’.

She threw back the grey rug that covered her legs. He was right about her clothes. She was dressed for a trip to town on a freezing, damp and miserable market day. Thick flannel skirt more serviceable than attractive. Winceyette blouse, topped by the red cable-knit jumper from her suit, and cable-knit lisle stockings.

‘I’m not taking you out of here without a cardigan. Where can I find one?’ he demanded.

‘On top of this, you must be joking. I’d feel like a bundle of laundry.’

‘You don’t put one on, I don’t take you.’

She glared at him, but it had no effect. Used to dealing with the tantrums and vagaries of ten younger brothers and sisters, Ronnie shrugged off her display of temperament without a second thought.

‘I’ll get one from my room,’ she said, suddenly thinking of her hair – her face – she didn’t even have a dab of powder on her nose, and if she was going out she really ought to put some scent on. Her spirits suddenly soared at the prospect of sitting in the café. Talking to the girls. Seeing people ...

‘Are you allowed to walk upstairs?’ he asked sharply.

‘Of course, how do you think I get to bed?’ she retorted.

‘There’s a difference between walking up and down once a day and running up and down for no good reason in between. And before you say another word,’ he flicked his lighter on and lit his cigarette, ‘I know what’s on your mind. You don’t want to go upstairs to get a cardigan, you just want to primp in front of the mirror.’

‘I do not!’ Her voice rose high in indignation.

‘Tell me what you want and I’ll bring it down,’ he interrupted just as she was about to burst into full flow.

Gripping the sides of her armchair she levered herself upwards. Ronnie wavered alarmingly within her sight. The room began to sway, and black spots swam before her eyes as they always did whenever she tried to rise.

‘You’re as weak as a kitten.’ He pushed her gently down into the chair and she fell back, grateful for the feel of its solid support beneath her. ‘Which is your room?’

‘Right at the top of the stairs.’ She felt a draught of cold air as he opened the kitchen door. ‘The grey cardigan,’ she called after him. ‘It’s on the stool in front of the dressing table.’ She blessed her mother’s rigid housekeeping. Her bedroom would be immaculate, just as it always was when she returned upstairs after a day in the kitchen. ‘And bring my handbag as well,’ she shouted, hearing his step on the stairs. ‘It’s next to the bed.’

‘Women!’ he moaned when he returned a few moments later with her handbag and the cardigan. ‘They’ve always got to primp themselves up, even for a trip out the back.’

He watched her as she squinted into the mirror. She’d washed her hands and face after tea, so comforting herself with the thought that she was at least clean, and very conscious of him watching her, she ran a comb through her hair, holding the mirror up in an effort to get a better view.

‘Your hair’s fine,’ he reassured her. It was, she noted with relief. Diana had helped her wash it yesterday evening when her mother had left to go to a chapel committee meeting. It had always been her best feature, and since she’d been ill she’d tried to make the most of what her father called her ‘crowning glory’, torturing her sleeping hours by wearing metal grippers in an effort to tame the unruly curls into fashionable waves. The only problem was, since her illness the contrast between the rich golden colour of her hair and the deathly pallor of her skin had become even more noticeable. Putting away her comb, she pushed up her lipstick with her thumbnail and spread it over her mouth. It was bright red, a colour Diana had assured her, suited her when she’d first gone to the Infirmary. Now it made her mouth look like an ugly red wound against the unnatural whiteness of her face. She lifted the stick, intending to dab some on her cheeks.