The Legacy (2 page)

‘Father only worked the railways, he was nothing special, my Walter’s good enough for me,’ and off she had marched with the small legacy her father had left her, determined to marry her man.

It was the legacy which had enabled Doris and Walter to set up straightaway in their own home, which was unheard of in the village. They did not need to live in Walter’s parents’ house as so many newly-weds had to. They chose carefully every bit of furniture, each piece of linen, discussed the crockery, the glasses. Walter’s family became hers.

She went to Swansea to choose her wedding dress. It was one of the finest the village had ever seen, cream lace-covered satin with lace cuffs and frills at the neck, the veil and train stretching a good six feet behind her. It was decorated with small seed pearls, and she had embroidered shoes to match. Walter had helped her choose the dress. The gossips had whispered that it was unlucky and it was.

Three days later Walter was dead, and Doris was alone in the immaculate house. The wedding dress lay spread out across the bed. She hated her father, blamed him for not letting them marry earlier, at least she would have had those few precious years with her beloved husband. Nor did she ever forgive her brother and his wife. Dr Collins, as he now was, never even sent a wreath. The letter had been short and written by his wife: ‘Perhaps it is for the best, he was never good enough for you and we could, I am sure, accommodate . you for a while until you find a place of your own here in Cardiff…’ Doris never replied. Dr Collins, for all his snobbishness, still lived in the old family house. Half of it had been left to Doris and she had every right to move back, but she didn’t.

The memory of those two full days and nights were all she had to last her a lifetime. And, sadly, they had lasted. Doris had begun to teach in the village school a year after Walter’s death. Her sweetheart, her husband, was with her in every corner of the house, and she needed no one else … ‘poor thing’.

EVELYNE HAD not been still since she had returned from school. She had slipped a pinafore over her skirt and rolled up her cardigan sleeves. Her thin arms were red raw from the cold, and yet she was sweating. Her pale face shone, her red hair clung in tight curls around her neck and the long braid down her back was loose. She tucked the wildly curling strands back and picked up the heavy buckets, puffing with the effort. As she tipped the water into the pans and the kettle, it splashed out, soaking her, drenching her bare feet which were filthy from the coal-dust-filled streets. She carried the empty buckets outside and waited in line to refill them as she did every day, every week, every month. Come five o’clock the line of village girls and women was always a hive of chatter as they met to collect water for their menfolk’s baths. All their families worked in the mines and every night was bath night.

Lizzie-Ann wiped her button nose on the sleeve of her threadbare cardigan. She grinned at Evelyne.

‘You back again? Well, well, Evie Jones, you’ll make a fine wife.’

She wrinkled her face and pointed to her black eye, a real shiner that made her wide pansy-coloured eyes appear ever larger. Lizzie-Ann was the prettiest girl in the village, and she knew it, she was a holy terror. Laughing, she said, ‘Is it any blacker? Me Mam hit me so hard I near fell off me feet. “Oh,” she said, “you little bugger, not brought in the washing, and Lord love me it’s covered in coal dust.”’

Evelyne smiled shyly and moved a step closer to the tap. She loved to hear Lizzie-Ann’s prattle, and knew they’d all be laughing in a minute.

‘ “I’ll be leaving your coal dust, Ma,” I says, “because I’m going to London to join me auntie, ohhh I’m following in father’s footsteps, I’m following my dear old dad.”’

She swished her skirts and danced up and down, her piping voice off key, but everyone began to giggle. Seeing she had an audience she began to do the can-can.

‘Come on, Evie, kick yer legs up, come on gel…’ ‘Will you really be going to London, Lizzie?’ ‘Didn’t I just say I wuz? Oh, look, there’s Dirty Jed, I’ll bet a farthing I’ll get a lemon sherbert outta him for showing me knickers.’

Evelyne poured the water from the buckets into a big iron pan balanced on the coal fire. Will grinned at his little sister as he stripped off his working clothes and she ducked under his arm to fill the tin bath. She loved bath time - loved the laughs and the warmth of the big old kitchen. Will was a strapping lad with curly, dark auburn hair, and black as his face was it still couldn’t hide his rosy cheeks. He had a tooth missing where he had fallen down in the pit and it gave him a cheeky little-boy look, but he was a devil when it came to teasing her.

‘Look at her stick legs, Mike,’ Will said to his younger brother, ‘it’s a wonder they don’t snap.’

Evelyne slapped him with the newspaper she was laying on the floor. Clouds of coal dust filled the air as the boys dropped their work clothes into the box and Evelyne pushed it under the table. Mike gave her a friendly pat on the bottom.

‘An’ she hasn’t got a bum either, but I love ‘er, I love ‘er.’

Mike always tried to be like his brother Will, but in truth he was as reserved and shy as Evelyne. Today had been his first day down the pit, and he was so tired she had to hold his hand to help him step into the bath. He moaned as he squatted in the water.

‘Give us a yell, gel, when he’s through. I’ll be out in the yard.’

‘Won’t you help me get Mike clean, Will? You’ll have time before supper to go a-courting.’

They all knew that Will was stuck on Lizzie-Ann, but, good-natured as ever, Will nodded, picked up the old sheet and ripped a piece off. He touched Mike’s back, which was raw from rubbing against the coal surface, and noticed that his elbows were bleeding and there were lumps on each side of his head.

‘You did well, our Mike, now get yerself clean. Do it this way.’

He twisted the piece of sheet into a point, dipped it in the water.

‘We do our faces first, mind, roll the corner into a point, wet it, and stuff it into yer eyes, then yer nose and ears … always do this first, while the sheet’s clean.’

Mike prodded and sneezed and coughed, his skin felt as if it was crawling.

‘Aw, put yer back into it, lad, or you’ll not get the muck off … Evie, give him a hand, he’s so tired out he’s lost his strength.’

When she had helped Mike get clean, Evelyne rushed out to refill the buckets. The kitchen was steaming and five times she went to the tap. She never blushed to see her naked brothers, nor were they shy at her scrubbing their backs with a pumice stone. They bawled at her for being too rough, splashed her when she was too gentle. She had seen her Ma bathe her Da since she was able to toddle, and had shared bath-time duties since she was strong enough to carry a bucket of water.

Mike stood up, dripping, and held out his arms for the sheet that served as a towel. She wrapped it around him and held his warm body for a moment. He was much younger than her other brothers, and his face puckered as he stepped out of the tub. Blood was running down his legs in rivulets from his knobbly knees, and Evelyne looked up into his face.

‘You all right, Mike? Shall I get the disinfectant?’

‘No, I can’t stand the stinging.’

Sighing, Will eased his body into the water.

‘My God it feels good, don’t it, Mike? Ahhh, this makes it all worthwhile, will you soap me back, gel?’

As she rubbed his back, she could feel the scars under her fingers. Mike sat huddled by the fire and watched her, and she gave him one of their secret, intimate smiles. He looked down, his long eyelashes looked as if they were resting on his cheeks.

‘Did Lizzie-Ann ask about me?’

Evelyne scrubbed and soaped, her skirt sopping.

‘She did mention that she couldn’t sleep for thinking about a certain person with no front tooth. Could that be you, our Will?’

‘Is that the truth, gel? Aw, yer having me on, but if you get the chance tell her what a fine-looking man I am naked.’

With a mock gasp of shock, Evelyne slapped him. He stood up and took the towel from her, wrapping it around his waist. He was indeed a fine-looking boy, even with the tooth missing.

Evelyne busied herself setting the table and pouring away the dirty bath water. Will brushed his hair, saying he would just parade on the front doorstep for a while.

‘Will you get dressed, Mike, lovey, you don’t want to catch cold now?’

Mike looked furtively around to see if Will had left the room then turned back to the fire. His voice was soft, lilting.

‘It’s so black, Evie, it’s indescribable. You push your hand out to feel it, and it goes right through the solid blackness. There is no gleam of light, no shadow. It is so black - like a massive weight on you, all around you as hard on the eyes as bright light.’

He was worn out, and afraid, she could feel it, but it was unspoken. He did not look at her, knowing that she knew. He was only three years older than Evelyne.

‘Will, Will, supper’s on the table now, come on.’

Evelyne set down the steaming bowls of stew, the big chunks of fresh bread. The two boys ate hungrily, washing the food down with gulps of scalding tea. There was a jug of ale, too, and that went down fast, but the dust stayed deep in their lungs. They were still eating when there was a rap on the back door.

‘I were just passin’ an’ wondered how yer Mike got along on his first day?’

Old Peg-Leg Thomas hobbled in, grinning a toothless smile, his hand already out for a mug of tea. He gasped and heaved for breath, but he rolled a cigarette as soon as he had sunk into the most comfortable fireside chair.

‘Who’s yer butty-mum?’

Mike wiped his mouth and told him it was Danny Williams.

‘Ahhh, now there’s a good butty-mum … yer know, if yer get allocated a butty that don’t know the ropes then yer can spend maybe two years learning what should’ve been taught yer in the first week, an’ there’s the truth. Good butty, Danny Williams, knows what’s what, you got a good lad ter teach yer … is there another drop of tea fer me?’

Evelyne wiped her plate with some bread, washed it, and refilled it from the stewpan. She poured a fresh mug of tea and loaded a small tin tray.

Her mother, Mary, was lying in the big double bed. Hanging from the ceiling and all around the room were sheets drying and the men’s work clothes washed for the following day. The bedroom was above the kitchen, so the big fire kept the room hot and stuffy. Mary was dozing, her thick black hair loose, her cheeks flushed, and Evelyne saw she was sweating. Softly, she put the tray down, and went to the washstand, rinsed a cloth and crept quietly to Mary’s side. Evelyne mopped her mother’s brow as gently as she could, but Mary stirred, opened her eyes and smiled. Evelyne helped her to sit up.

Mary was in her ninth month, and very ungainly. The baby made a huge mound in the centre of the bed, a mound that didn’t seem to belong to the woman who carried it. Mary’s once-strong arms were thin, her hands bony, as was the rest of her body apart from her belly. It was as if all her strength and energy had been drawn from her and given to the unborn child. Evelyne propped up the pillows behind her Ma, and Mary leaned back. As Evelyne put the tray carefully on the bed, she noticed the tea and bread she had brought earlier had not been touched.

‘How’s our Mike, he get on all right, Evie?’

Evelyne nodded and began to tidy the room, patted the drying sheets.

‘Are you feeling any better, Ma? You not been sick?’

She watched as Mary used both hands to lift the mug of tea.

‘You eat the stew if you can, Ma, you need your strength.’

‘Get along with you, Evie Jones, treating me like I was a baby.’ Mary lifted the spoon and tried to eat but couldn’t, she felt too exhausted. ‘Spend some time with Mike tonight, it’s always bad on their first day. I’ll maybe finish my supper later … have you been in to see little Davey?’

‘I’ll go to him now. You try and eat, Ma, there’s not too much salt is there?’

Mary put her hand out to take her daughter’s, gripped it tight. ‘You’re a good daughter, and the stew’s just perfect… I’ll have a little rest now.’

She felt so weary, and her eyes closed. She was more than worried, she’d not felt as bad as this even with little Davey.

Little Davey was in his cot, his nappy wet, his shining face red and blotchy. He banged his rattle against the sides of the cot. Evelyne picked him up. The sheets were sodden, she’d have to wash them out in the morning. She put Davey on the floor while she changed the bedding and grabbed him just before he crawled out of the door, laid him on her knee and took off his wet things. The little fellow lolled in her lap, sucked her arm. She held him close, smelling his baby smell, his soft, downy hair. Little Davey was always happy, gurgling away, but his lolling head and drooping mouth revealed that he was spastic. The full extent of his problem was not yet defined, old Doc Clock putting it down to Davey being just that bit backward. Davey was three years old, but he could not walk by himself or say more than ‘Dada-dada’ …

By the time Evelyne had cleared the table and washed the dishes, filled the kettle for the tea caddies in the morning, it was nine o’clock. She made sandwiches for her brothers, packing them in their tins. The mines were plagued with rats so all food had to be carefully packed. She then washed the rest of her brothers’ clothes. They had already gone to bed as they had to be up at four for the five o’clock shift. Their beds would be taken by their Da and their eldest brother Dicken when they came home from the night shift.

It was after ten before Evelyne had a moment to sit alone by the big kitchen fire. Her eyes were red-rimmed from tiredness, she could hardly see her school books. She read by the firelight, careful not to get dust on the books that Doris Evans had lent her. This was Evelyne’s favourite time, the only time of the day or night when she could be alone. She treasured it, hungered for it, and used it. This was when she did her writing, when she could dream her dreams.

Mary woke and tried to ease her bulk into a more comfortable position. She sighed, this was one she could well do without, especially with Davey as he was. As she turned she saw Evelyne standing by the bedroom window. She said nothing, just lay and watched her daughter brushing her hair. ‘You awake, Mama?’