Shoes for Anthony (31 page)

He ruffled my hair roughly and sprang off towards the house. ‘Coming!' he shouted.

I watched him go, slapping Piotr on the upper arm, smiling broadly, and I realised that Alf was precisely the sort of man Ade would have grown up to be.

The washing of linen usually happened once a month. It was too big a job for Mam to tackle weekly, but I always looked forward to it because the smell that wafted through the house was glorious. The fresh, sharp smell of soap and starch would cut through the prevailing wind of coal dust, a blast of cool air blowing away the cobwebs. Sheets were pressed into the tin tub with a long wooden pair of tongs, covered with boiling water and left to soak before Mam took her scrubbing board and thrashed the living daylights out of them. It was hard, backbreaking work, and she would stop every now and again, the sweat glistening on her forehead, and stretch backwards, hands on hips, to release the tension in her lower back. When she'd lathered the sheets, she'd take them out and rinse them under the cold tap in the garden; then, when all the soap was gone, she'd turn the sheet into a tight roll and twist it to extract the water before hanging it in front of the back kitchen fire to dry.

The house was suddenly a clatter of activity. Preparations for Father's return were in full swing. Bopa had come over to help Mam with the sheets, and Emrys had brought home another camp bed so that Mam could sleep on it rather than sharing the bed with Father. That way, she reasoned, if she needed to be up and down in the night, she wouldn't be disturbing him. Everything now was geared to settling in for the long, dark wait. Either Father would pull out of it, or he wouldn't.

He'd lost a lot of weight, his once rugged, solid frame diminished, his skin sallow and sickly. His face was etched with pain – anguished, even – and as Alf and Emrys carried him in, I felt tears prick again behind my eyes. I turned away, my bottom lip tense and trembling. Bopa, seeing me go, placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Don't cry in front of him, Anthony,' she said, quietly. ‘It's time to be strong.'

He was on a stretcher but they would have to walk him up the stairs. It was either that or leave him on a camp bed in the parlour, and Mam wasn't having that. It was a terrible thing to see your own father being inched up a staircase. It was only eighteen steps but it may as well have been eight hundred. Every step he had to stop, shoulders hunched, to catch his breath, the effort of raising a leg taking its toll. ‘Lean on me,' said Alf, taking his weight. ‘And tell us when you're ready.' And so it went. A nod from Father, a step, the sound of shallow rapid breathing, everyone would stop, wait, and start again. Mam was standing at the top of the stairs, her arms folded tight. She and Bopa had readied the room. Clean sheets on, bowls of water, hot and cold, flannels. The room smelled fresh, springlike, ready to be filled with the dank fug of sickness.

‘Pass me that pillow, Ant,' said Mam, as the boys lifted Father into bed. He sank down, his head listing to one side, his eyes dull and lifeless. Mam lifted his head gently and rested it back against the extra pillow. ‘Sit him up a little,' she asked Alf and Emrys, ‘to help his breathing.'

He was clammy to the touch and seemed disorientated, and, as he sat up, he cast a look around the room as if he wasn't quite sure where he was. Mam held a cold wet flannel against his forehead. ‘He's got a fever,' she said quietly, turning to Bethan. ‘Ant, go get Dr Mitchell.'

I didn't need asking twice.

Half an hour later, Dr Mitchell slipped the stethoscope from round his neck and dropped it into his bag, his examination complete. ‘I can give him some penicillin,' he said, reaching for his prescription pad. ‘But that's all. If it's going to work, we'll see an improvement in three days.'

‘And if it doesn't?' asked Bethan, her hand resting on the post at the end of the bed.

The question went unanswered. ‘So,' said Dr Mitchell, standing up and handing Mam the prescription. ‘Penicillin twice a day. If his fever is running, keep him cool. Open the window. If you can get hold of ice, use it. His heartbeat's running fast, that's to be expected with pneumonia, but if you notice his breathing becoming very quick and shallow, call me back.'

‘Thank you, Doctor,' said Mam, fingering the corners of the prescription.

‘Are you sure you want to keep him here?' Dr Mitchell added. ‘I can arrange for a bed at the hospital, if it's too much?'

‘Nothing is too much,' said Mam, shaking her head. ‘We'll manage.'

Dr Mitchell fixed her with a small, silent gaze, picked up his hat and, with a polite nod, left.

Mam turned and handed me the prescription. ‘Off you go, Ant,' she said, letting her other hand rest on Father's forearm. ‘Let's get this started. You'll have to tell the pharmacist to put it on tick. We can pay him when we get Bethan's wages.'

‘What shall we do?' said Emrys, hands tucked into his armpits.

‘We shall wait,' said Bethan, sitting down on the end of the bed, her hand curling into Father's. ‘We're here, Father,' she said, soft and gentle. Alwyn took up a spot in the corner of the room, sitting, elbows on knees. Emrys knocked open the window with the flat of his palm.

‘I'll be off, then,' said Alf, unfolding the cap squeezed between his hands. ‘Leave you to it.'

‘Thank you, Alf,' said Mam. ‘You've been a brick.'

Alf smiled and looked towards Bethan, hoping, from the looks of him, for a small gesture of kindness, but my sister didn't notice him. Alf's small, easy smile faded, and with a last nod to us all, he slipped away.

Piotr had got himself a part-time job doing deliveries for Hughes the Grocer. I was glad that it was Piotr who had taken over Ade's old job, but it was also a sad reminder. Still, with the drop in wages lessening the swell in Mam's pocket, Piotr had felt the urgent need to help out. We had looked after him, and now he would help look after us, he said.

‘Why don't you go with him, Ant?' said Mam, bringing some sodden towels down to be washed. ‘Do you good to get out for a bit.'

‘You should,' said Bopa, her arms folded. ‘You're looking peaky, Anthony. Boys are made for fresh air. Go get some. Besides, Piotr won't know his way around, will he?' She shot a look in his direction. ‘Where's your first stop?'

Piotr looked at the crumpled piece of paper Hughes had handed him. ‘Mrs Onions, Blaencwm.'

‘Four potatoes, six carrots and a large white cabbage, am I right?' said Bopa, closing her eyes to concentrate.

Piotr let out an astonished laugh. ‘Yes! How did you know that?'

‘I've got the gift,' said Bopa, with a shrug. ‘Try me with another.'

‘All right,' said Piotr, casting a glance back down at his order list. ‘Mrs Cadwallader.'

‘She lives in the back room of her son's house. He doesn't like people coming to the front door, so you'll need to pass her order through the back window. Sprouts and green beans.'

‘Yes! Mr Cecil …'

‘Oh, him,' said Bopa, her voice deep and fruity. ‘Bachelor. Likes to paint cats. Leeks. Cauliflower. Parsley. Peas when they're in season.' She stopped and fixed Piotr with an expectant grin. ‘Well? Am I right?'

‘Yes! Again! You're amazing, Mrs Jackson!'

‘Now, the trick,' said Bopa, pulling my shirt collar out from under my jumper, ‘is to not eat
all
the peas before you deliver them. Isn't that right, Anthony?'

I nodded.

‘This is good advice,' said Piotr, ‘and if I get too greedy, Anthony can stop me.'

The atmosphere at home was oppressive and downcast, and in the van with Piotr, I felt happily distracted. Since the war started, a lot of people had turned their gardens into vegetable patches, so deliveries were mostly for old folk who couldn't dig for themselves. Mam had had her own veg for a while, having dug over our own garden a few years back. She had a slim green book,
Cloches Versus Hitler
, that she treated like a bible. It was supposed to help her crop large varieties of vegetables through every month of the year, but, as Bopa pointed out, ‘Mr Churchilll didn't reckon for Welsh slugs.' What with every manner of crawling creature helping itself, we were more often than not left with vegetables that were half-chewed and mangled. Mam didn't care, mind. Once it was chopped, it didn't matter how ugly it was, she said.

‘Want to come up mountain with me and get that radio?' asked Piotr, as we parked up outside the grocer's. ‘I was thinking of going later. I've got to take some crates to Porthcawl first. Shouldn't take long. In fact, I'm giving Bethan a lift. She needs to hand over some papers. Want to come? There'll be lots of Americans to look at.'

I opened the door and jumped down, taking care to pick up the stolen pea pods we'd been enjoying. ‘Dunno about the den. Feels weird. But I'll come to Porthcawl with you and Bethan.'

Piotr smiled. ‘Great! Help me get some more crates in back, then we go pick up your sister.'

It was an uncommonly glorious day. A day with heat to it, dry and blazing. We loaded up the van then wound down the windows and I stuck my head out, enjoying the wind buffeting my cheeks and hair.

‘You're like a dog, Ant,' said Bethan, laughing. ‘You'll want a bone next, I swear.'

It was a relief to be out. Home had become so solemn and serious: everything was communicated in hushed tones, the wireless left silent, and Mam would sit for hours with Father, only leaving his side to make an endless stream of thin soups that she would attempt to dribble into his mouth. It was an unedifying spectacle, a vision of the end of a life. None of us expected him to pull through. We'd resigned ourselves to it. Miners with pneumonia didn't present good odds.

We hadn't seen much of Andrew and Robert, the two Americans billeted with Bopa; in fact, we hadn't seen much of the Americans at all. News had it they were off into the mountains, training and making final preparations. ‘They must be going into France, mustn't they?' I said, as we passed a small convoy of large green trucks.

‘Well, they're a long way from Japan,' said Bethan, pouting into her compact and applying bright-red lipstick. ‘So I guess they're not going there.'

‘What do you think, Piotr?' I asked, forming my left hand into a claw to catch the wind. ‘It has to be France.'

‘Of course,' he said, casting a quick glance into the wing mirror. ‘The Germans are stretched. The Russians are putting up pretty good fight. It's right time to do it.'

I smiled. The thought that we were finally going to show Hitler what for had been a long time coming. ‘Fez says his dad has got a loo roll with Hitler's face on every sheet.'

‘Stop it!' cried Bethan, stopping what she was doing to glare at me. ‘You've made that up.'

‘I haven't,' I protested. ‘Fez said his dad wipes his arse on Hitler every time he has a shit.'

Piotr bellowed with laughter. Bethan gave a small tut and turned back to fixing her lipstick.

‘This, I would like to see!' said Piotr. ‘Just the paper, of course. Not shitting.'

‘Piotr!' yelled Bethan, thumping him on the forearm.

We grinned at each other. I stared back out the window, watching my fingers fill with the wind. The heather was out in full force in this part of the valley, the hillsides painted purple, with a strong, almost smoky aroma. You could make honey – rich, bitter and aromatic – out of it, if you persevered. One year out of five, you'd get good enough weather. I looked up into the deep-blue sky. The bees would be busy.

‘Do you know, yet?' I said, turning back to Piotr. ‘Whether you'll go too?'

‘I don't. But I hope so,' he answered, his jaw tensing a little. ‘But who knows what's in store for me? They still haven't managed to transport me to Scotland.'

‘Well, I for one am glad they haven't managed to get rid of you,' said Bethan, clipping her compact shut.

‘And I am,' I added.

Another large green wagon rumbled past us. ‘Wonder when they'll leave?' I said, resting my chin on the lip of the window. ‘For real, I mean.'

‘When weather and moon is right,' said Piotr. ‘But who knows when weather is right in Wales?'

‘If you don't like the weather in Wales,' said Bethan, ‘wait ten minutes. There'll be some more along shortly.'

He smiled. ‘True enough. Now, then, I have two surprises. One, I have borrowed your Father's Brownie camera. I hope you don't mind, but I'd like memento of day. And two, I received wages from Polish army. Backdated, too. So not only have I got money to give your mother but I think, though I'm not promising, that I might be able to treat you both to ice cream. What do you think about that?'

‘Ice cream?' I yelled, my eyes boggling.

‘Yes. Ice cream.'

It was quite something that somebody, anybody, was able to lift our spirits, given the sadness that lay heavy over our roof, but in that moment, Bethan and I looked at each other and knew that we loved him.

Porthcawl was rammed. Mosquitoes and transport planes buzzed overhead, large battleships lay off the harbour, and everywhere you looked, soldiers were running up the beach, filling sandbags or building spurs. Bethan had dropped off some papers – more movement orders, she said – and, job done, the three of us decided to walk up the Esplanade. Gulls cried out, registering their protest from every vantage point: they were used to being the noisy ones round here, and here they were, being outdone.

‘You could take us to the Seabank,' said Bethan, linking her arm through Piotr's. ‘It's that big white hotel there on the corner. The one with the red roof.' She pointed off into the distance. ‘It does teas and things.'

‘Does it do ice cream?' I said, fiddling with Father's camera.

‘Probably,' replied Bethan, tossing her hair. ‘Be careful with that, Ant. It's not a toy.'